"I told you." He spewed blood from his lips into the ground at my feet. I'm not your father, sorry.

His last words ring in my thoughts, repeating themselves over while I struggle to understand what they mean. the same phrases he tortured me with for years, mocking me. As he handed me my "special gift," as he called it, he played the scratched CD that he used to play every year on my birthday in my brain.

Before that day with Jason's mother, I had never received a kind or practical present. New totter weaponry that my father would employ to keep his pack in check and prevent them...