That look. That look he would give me. Disgust, anger and hate all mixed in one expression. I never knew why he always wore that look. As his son, Iâ€™d expect something much else. Maybe it was the drugs? Maybe it was the anguish he held against himself for not destroying his spice addiction. I never knew why.
But the day he died, I suddenly did not care. I loved him like any son would, so when he was killed by the Huttâ€™s enforcers that expression he would give me disappeared from my mind. The only thing left in my conscious was the fact that he died. My Father. And surprisingly, I was saddened, depressed even. He never laid a finger on me, he never said he hated me, nor did he ever say he loved me from what I can remember. He only gave me the expression I hated so dearly.
And so, the day the enforcerâ€™s came for me, I didnâ€™t fight back. I took responsibility for the acts of my late father. And so, I became a child slave for a gluttonous Hutt.