The childhood of Ladd Russo was a simple one. He could tell it in colors if he had anyone to tell it to.
Maybe he would tell it to Lua before he killed her.
His father was tall. His mother was not. It was almost comical if that was your laugh.
He stood over her with his belt already undone. Her apricot dress was bunched around her feet so as not to stain it. It was Ladd who liked the messes.
Ladd was under the table watching. His mother knew he was there. Knew he was too young to do anything. She was just happy it was her curled up on the floor instead of him even if she never told him so.
The cobalt checkered table cloth never hung low enough. He wanted it to cover him and be his invisibility cloak. He felt her eyes on him. His skin burned the shade of a pig with shame and he had to cover his mouth with both of his hands to keep from squealing like one when the whipping started.
It ended in blood. That dreadful red. It was all he saw anymore.
Ladd saw his father's face in the mirror whenever he looked too deep. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking so the razor in his hand turned against him. His blood dripped off his chin and onto the counter along with a dollop of shaving cream.
It was just like all those years ago when he had seen his father staring down his own reflection, angry instead of blood dripping off him. Boxing with Ladd's mother had never been enough to settle that temper of his.
Lua came up behind him and pressing her breasts into his back steadied his hand. She was always helping him.
The thought of killing her slowly maybe with his hands around her throat (she would go maroon, she would be his balloon, he had been bursting her for years) or letting her bleed out from knife wounds of varying degrees was no longer sweet, but a promise was a promise. She couldn't do it herself.