This is from the Play "Brothers" by Don Zolidis, typed from memory by me as an exercise.
The character is Jack, an intimidating 40+ year old who is arguing with his wife. His son has gone on an auto theft spree and she is blaming it on brain damage he may have incurred as a teenager.
LET ME TALK. WILL YOU SHUT UP FOR ONE SECOND!!??
The police called, I went down to the station to pick him up cause he had gone to that school dance high as a kite or whatever - tested .13 blood alcohol - and there I am - and the cop points me over to my son, and I look at him, my fourteen year old son - and he is so - he is so gone, he doesn't know where he is - I look at him, and I say, 'that's my son'... and I was so ashamed that this - fucked up waste - was my child, this zombie, with his red eyes, and his greasy hair, and his clothes that don't fit - this is my child, my reason for being - And how could I have done such a piss poor job that he wound up like this - I took him - He didn't say a word. I woulda clocked him if he said anything to me - we get home - get in that door, and he turns his back on me, and he walks away with that gangster-trying to be black shuffle he's got, and he says "fuck you dad"
(a short pause)
You don't know what you're capable of sometimes. I grabbed him - I took his face in my hands and I just - I hated him right then - I mean real hate like I haven't hated anyone my whole life - and I was slamming his head in to the fireplace - again and again in to the bricks, and there was blood and this was my son - then I remembered - the last time he was red like that - when he was born, when I was holding him, and he fit in my hand - my same hand... I didn't know how I got there. I didn't know why. How do you get to that point?
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