HIS TOY

Everyone knows that feeling.

A feeling of betrayal and frustration, one that could kill.

A feeling of hopelessness.

   The room was slightly opened and inside sat the one man who could make the whole of America quiver in fear and submission. That same man sat on the floor, a bottle of rum in his hand and a few other bottles on the floor. Some were broken while some lay motionless probably feeling what he was feeling. His white shirt opened that only two buttons held it and his hair wasn't the gelled black hair or the curly one, it was dishevelled as if he had just had sex. But the worst kind of sex.

    He coughed tears in his eyes, he took a huge  gulp of the content, and another until the bottle was empty then he threw it across the room and it shattered. His woman would have screamed or rebuked him. But no, she wasn't here... she was probably six feet to her death.

Yes! It was his fault. He had killed her and he regretted it. His daughter couldn't look at his face, she hated him and he hated himself.

   If he could rewind time, he wouldn't have shot that bullet... a kill bullet. It had hit her chest and she had screamed his name with shock and pain, but he knew he saw hate masked under the pretence of shock and pain.

She can't feel pain, not after he had broken her to the extent that she could cut a life body without throwing up or fainting. It was hatred for him because he knew he had destroyed her entire life when he made her his own. It wasn't just that people would be after her or she'd engage in some illegal business of the sort, it was... .