His Urge by Ana W. Fawkes

Through his pants I felt his hardness.
    “I’m going to love you,” Cresh whispered, “like you deserve to be loved.”
    “That’s enough.”
    The voice boomed and it shook me to my core.  I looked down and saw Jonathan Black still out cold.  But there, standing in the doorway, was a wobbly but awake John Black.  His mouth was open like he had more to say but he was seeing and realizing the position I was in.
    Cresh looked at John and scowled.  “Get out of here.”
    “No, not her.  Not like this.”
    “We have a deal...”
    John looked down at his son.  “Yes, we do.  But it doesn’t include this.”
    “You said I could have her.”
    John looked at me and I took a deep breath.  “I hate you,” I said.
    “Peter, get off her right now.”
    “Fuck you,” Cresh said.  “This is all over.”
    John Black pointed to the knife on the floor and made a motion for it.  Could father be like son and murder someone? 
    Cresh moved from the bed with speed and stepped on the knife before John could actually make a move for it.  I wasn’t sure if he really would have done anything anyway.   John Black became furious and he took a swing at Cresh.  I almost felt bad for Cresh, for the amount of abuse he had been taking so far, but John Black didn’t have the accuracy or strength of his son.  The punch connected, but hit Cresh in the shoulder and it appeared to hurt John more than Cresh.
    Great.
    If Cresh knocked out John Black then I was in bigger trouble.
    Cresh grabbed John by his suit jacket and pulled him nose to nose.
    “Don’t fuck with me,” Cresh growled.
    “Don’t fuck with me,” John said back.  His eyes were huge and bloodshot, his hair messy, and the lines in his face looked terrible.  He looked weak and useless, but his mind was still sharp. 
    At least I hoped.
    Cresh slammed his head into John’s face, hitting his nose with a crunch that brought blood instantly. 
    John fell back but gained footing and hit Cresh again.  This time he connected with Cresh’s face.  Cresh cried out and John continued swinging.  It was a terrible fight to watch, both men looking unsure of how to hurt the other.  There was more at stake that met the eyes because neither man took the time to get the knife or go to the bathroom and get the gun. 
    John put Cresh against the wall, his hands on Cresh’s throat, squeezing.  He gritted his teeth and growled as Cresh’s face turned red. Cresh still had use of his hands and started to land heavy punches to John’s aged body.  John managed to absorb the first few punches but one caught him in the ribs, taking his breath away.  His hands released off Cresh and held his side.  Cresh then went for John’s weak spot, hitting him repeatedly in the stomach and ribs.  John turned and fell against the wall. 
    “Cresh...”
    “I told you not to fuck with me,” Cresh said.
    He made another fist, shaking his head.  Now it seemed like he was going to go in for the kill.
    That’s when I saw movement.  Not from Cresh, not from John.  As Cresh wound up with a fist that, if connected, would take John out for good, Jonathan moved to his hands and knees.  He turned his head and looked at me first.  I smiled, telling him that nothing had happened.  I was still his, always his.  He then jumped, grabbed the knife, and as Cresh turned his head, realizing Jonathan Black was back to life, Jonathan rammed the knife into Cresh’s stomach. 
    The sound was wet and sickening.  Cresh’s mouth fell open and had an eerie resemblance to Oliver Rush.  This time though, Jonathan didn’t pull the knife out.  He drove it deeper, his hand touched Cresh’s stomach.  He pushed at Cresh, forcing him back until he hit the wall.  Jonathan let go and stepped back, only staring at Peter Cresh.  I could only imagine the thoughts floating around Jonathan’s mind. 
    John reached out and touched Jonathan’s shoulder.
    Jonathan dropped his shoulder and stared at his