One Way Or Another You Will Pay
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Authors: Eve Rabi
ONE
WAY OR ANOTHER
You Will Pay
By Eve Rabi
~~~
Smashwords Edition
Copyright
© 2013 Eve Rabi. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and media used in this book are fictitious and are the product of the author's imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication use of this trademark is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table
of Contents
ONE
WAHROONGA
SYDNEY
AUSTRALIA
13 May
Arena,
it’s been three months since I've seen you and more than seven months since I’ve seen Warren. Time to put aside our differences so I can see my son. You have won. You have taken all from me – my money, my son, my business and my freedom. So …hooray! I guess. You can now do your victory dance (if you haven’t done it already) and drink your celebratory champagne (well, in your case, moonshine, right? Or have you
upgraded
to beer?). Go ahead, have your
can
of beer but after that, bring my son to see me in prison. Hear what I’m saying, Arena? You. Have. Won. Round of applause for Arena! She outsmarted Tom Botha.
Tom
****
13 June
Arena,
you do not need clearance as you already have it with Remington Correctional Services.
I
would like to know
when
you are bringing Warren over for a visit, so I can prepare for him. Well, mentally prepare, that is, just in case you’re wondering what I mean. In case you don’t understand what I am saying.
Just
in case.
Tom
PS:
It would be polite if you had the decency to reply to my letters.
Polite:
adjective, having or showing behavior that is respectful and considerate of other people.
Synonyms:
polite, mannerly, civil, courteous, genteel.
****
13 July
Arena,
bury your simple head, your pea-brain in the sand like an ostrich, or Emu, I don’t care, I am
not
going away!
(Emu
because I notice you’re into Australian cocks in a big way these days. Well, an ostrich or an emu would fall under chickens or
cocks
, right? In a roundabout way?
If
I’m wrong, pardon me, but it’s just so goddamn funny, I’m going to use it.)
Anyway,
I am not going away! I am here to stay, so please, don’t pretend I don’t exist! Have the decency to reply to my goddamn letters!
That’s
d.e.c.e.n.c.y, get it?
Regardless
of your level of education, you must be able to understand the term decency, okay? Now, I have asked you several times to bring Warren to me and you have just ignored both my requests and my letters. This makes me angry, Arena. Really angry, and we both knows what happens when I get angry, so please, do yourself a favour and bring my son to visit me!
After
all, I am his father.
Also,
may I remind you that I am in prison, helpless and alone, with murderers, child molesters, rapists, and drug pushers because of your unethical, debauched, immoral, and depraved doing?
Having
trouble with those big words, Arena? Fear not, for you can Google those words these days to find their meanings.
I
apologize; I really should take into consideration your lack of a college education. Sometimes, I clean forget it’s you I am talking to, my dear Eliza.
Anyway,
as I said in my previous letters, which you blatantly disregarded, blatantly ignored, you’ve won, so do your victory dance, eat your celebratory meat pie, with tomato sauce, of course, (can’t leave that out now, can we?) drink your cheap, Australian beer that you’re probably quaffing these days, and bring my son to visit me! I will be waiting.
PS:
Decency: behaviour that conforms to accepted standards of morality or respectability.
Synonyms:
propriety
,
decorum
,
seemliness, good taste,
respectability
,
dignity
,
correctness,
good form
,
etiquette
.
PPS: Eliza, a reference to a character in Pygmalion. Do Google it, dear simple Arena.
****
13 August
ARENA!!!!!!!!!!!!!
YOU HAVE IGNORED MY FUCKING LETTERS!
ALL
OF MY FUCKING LETTERS!
WHY?!
WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IGNORING ME?
GIVE
ME ONE FUCKING REASON, ARENA! I DESERVE AN ANSWER! WARREN IS MY SON, YOU FUCKING CHEAP, UNEDUCATED, UNATTRACTIVE, UNAPPEALING, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING, TWO-BIT WHORE!!!!!
I
DEMAND TO SEE MY SON, YOU HEAR?!!!!!
I
DEMAND TO SEE HIM BEFORE THE END OF NEXT WEEK!!!!
LET
ME REPEAT THAT; YOU WILL BRING MY SON TO SEE ME BEFORE THE END OF THE FUCKING WEEK, YOU HEAR?
(Unsigned)
****
20 August
ARENA!
The week has passed and you have not brought my son to see me. WHY?????? I WANT TO SEE MY SON, YOU BITCH! Are you too busy fucking some UNEDUCATED, LOW LIFE WHO LIVES OFF MY FUCKING MONEY, ARENA? WHO SITS IN MY CHAIR, SLEEPS IN MY BED AND PLAYS WITH MY SON, ACTING LIKE HE’S TOM BOTHA, HUH? HUH, ARENA?
ANSWER
ME YOU DIRTY, USELESS WHORE!
Do
you know what your problem is, Arena? Let me tell you what your problem is. You think you have won. You think you had the last word. You are under the assumption, that just because I am in prison, you have won. Ass-ump-tion.
No,
no, no, oh, simple-minded Arena, you didn’t. The game is still being played.
See,
in prison, I have time to think. Tons of it, and I have made a decision; I will have the last word. Why?
BECAUSE
I AM TOM BOTHA, ARENA!
YOU
DON’T FUCK WITH ME AND GET AWAY WITH IT, YOU HEAR?
If
you think that you can, you are wrong.
So
wrong. So very wrong.
Trust
me.
From
the man you fucked over but will have the last word.
Sir Tom Botha
PS:
Game on!
PPS:
Game so on!
TWO
Six
months.
That’s
how long it’s been since I was bombarded with letters from Tom, since he stopped his threats, and his demands to see Warren.
Of
course, I’m a little concerned.
The
reason I’ve accepted his letters from Ian Saunders, Tom’s attorney, in the first place, even though they were a negative, constant reminder of the life I left behind, the life I shed with great difficulty, is that I wanted to know what Tom was up to.
Needed
to know what he was thinking.
Of
course, Tom’s mail has always been directed to my post office box, and since Ian Saunders does not have my physical address, I believe it is safe to say that Tom has no knowledge of my whereabouts.
The
last time I talked to him, I informed him that I was leaving for Melbourne.
But
that didn’t happen, unfortunately.
When
Tom rants and raves and insults the crap out of me, it is okay; at least I know his train of thought. My fears compound whenever he falls quiet.
You
know that feeling when your hyper toddler is suddenly quiet?
You
put down your tea towel, no,
throw
down your tea towel and race around the house looking for your cherubic, but highly destructive darling, only to find the ominously quiet one with your brand new
Viva Glam!
Mac Lipstick, which you paid a hefty $45 for, smeared all over his face, the dressing table, and your beautiful white sheets?
Sure,
you are both horrified and dismayed, yet, as you scold your toddler, you can’t help but snap away with your phone camera for Facebook. That’s the feeling I get when Tom is quiet.
Except
the camera part.
I
have no photos of Tom in my house whatsoever, and no desire to ever photograph the man who abused me, abused my son and killed my baby girl. The heartless tyrant.
His
silence reminds me of the time I left him and didn’t hear from him for months, just before Sasha died. Tom was very quiet and I had the same uneasy feeling. My fears were founded in the end. Tom was quietly baking and brewing a deep dish of revenge. Remember?
Anyway,
each time, after I read his letters, I destroyed them.
Mainly
because I didn’t want Warren to find them. Never once was I conflicted as to whether or not Warren should visit his biological father in prison.
Like
me, Warren has moved on. The father-figure in his life, caring, loving Bear, is
hell-bent
on restoring my son’s confidence.
Bear
has legally adopted Warren, and Warren, in turn, has adopted a number of Bear’s qualities, good ones at that. I couldn’t be happier.
Bear
is aware that Tom writes to me, and when he fussed about it, I sat him down and explained the need for me to accept Tom’s letters.
He
doesn’t have a problem with me accepting the letters; he’s even read some of them.
But
Bear, being the alpha male he is, can’t handle Tom’s threats and constant put-downs. When he grew outraged one day and threatened to pay Tom a visit in Remington, the prison he was transferred to, I decided to stop sharing Tom’s letters with him.
