There were a lot of things Mark felt like doing in that moment, none of which were any good for the health and safety of him, his son, his entire family. The first response was to attack. What parent worth anything didn't feel that when their kid was being hurt or at risk of harm. He was grateful for Euan and his intervention. He was grateful for all the guys here with him right now, but fury was raging inside him, storming along with wanting to break down and cry... or reach for the nearest bottle of booze. He wanted to get so blinded, he didn't have to feel a thing. But at the same time, he wanted to feel everything so his kid wasn't alone. It killed him knowing his genes had been passed onto Justin in this way. He was the reason Justin had an exacerbated mental illness, he was the reason Justin had addictions. Or, at least, that's how it felt. To hear all this, his brain was trying to shut down, because it was too much to handle.
Feeling like he was about to vomit, he leaned over, pressing his hands against his face so forcefully, he felt like he was bruising his cheekbones. One thing was beginning to make sense, though. How trashed Justin was the night he showed up on Mark's doorstep. Justin had been so off his face, he was near-projectile vomiting and struggling to form words, let alone coherent sentences. He had hitchhiked from Chicago to New York, something he didn't reveal until months after he got here. He could have been murdered. Now Mark was realising that he was almost murdered by his own mother. No wonder the kid had a long history of disassociating with many gaps in his memory. No wonder he had used drugs and alcohol to try to self-medication, at fucking 13 years old. Mark wondered now if the reason Justin came to him when he did was because he had read online about Mark being an attorney who had one some really high-profile national cases. That was how Justin found him, reading media online. "What can you do, when can you do it, and how fucking much pain can you inflict on that cunt when you destroy her?"
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Feeling like he was about to vomit, he leaned over, pressing his hands against his face so forcefully, he felt like he was bruising his cheekbones. One thing was beginning to make sense, though. How trashed Justin was the night he showed up on Mark's doorstep. Justin had been so off his face, he was near-projectile vomiting and struggling to form words, let alone coherent sentences. He had hitchhiked from Chicago to New York, something he didn't reveal until months after he got here. He could have been murdered. Now Mark was realising that he was almost murdered by his own mother. No wonder the kid had a long history of disassociating with many gaps in his memory. No wonder he had used drugs and alcohol to try to self-medication, at fucking 13 years old. Mark wondered now if the reason Justin came to him when he did was because he had read online about Mark being an attorney who had one some really high-profile national cases. That was how Justin found him, reading media online. "What can you do, when can you do it, and how fucking much pain can you inflict on that cunt when you destroy her?"