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, I’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 Hutt’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 enforcer’s came for me, I didn’t fight back. I took responsibility for the acts of my late father. And so, I became a child slave for a gluttonous Hutt.