My House of Pain: Blood Versus Beast

What the fuck can I say about my father, Liam?

He was a brilliant technologist—well educated, well spoken, well mannered. The kind of man whose polished shoes clicked against marble floors with purpose. His cologne smelled like cedar and ambition, at least in my fragmented memories.

God damn, that man loved the world in ways most couldn't comprehend. He'd wake me at dawn, his hands gentle but insistent on my shoulder, whispering, "Daylight's burning, kiddo." We'd trek through dewy forests while the rest of the neighborhood slept off their hangovers. The sunlight would filter through pine needles, painting his bearded face with gold as he crouched beside me pointing out mushroom varieties or deer tracks pressed into soft earth. "Everything speaks," he'd say, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, "if you stop long enough to listen."

His fingers would trace the jagged bark of ancient cedars, eyes closed like he was reading braille from the goddamn universe itself. "These trees remember s…