AllFreeNovel
Share Us
They had no idea how much I hated them all. That I hated my part in their big success. That I would take it back if it was possible.
And besides, fuck them. They were all assholes.
A small, nervous giggle filled the uncomfortable silence from the blonde, big tittied woman in the tight dress as my father pinched her nipple roughly, demanding. "Well?"
The image of Rook's grandmother, staring up at the ceiling, a vacant expression on her face, flashed through my mind. She had vomit running from her lips and onto the bed, tangling in her long, silver hair.
My fingers curled into fists.
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
His expression darkened. On his feet in a flash, pain slammed through me. My face was on fire as his hand connected with my cheek.
The loud slap reverberated through the room, the celebratory mood instantly cut short.
"Don't you ever look at me like that again, boy." He was heaving, his own neck flushed red with anger. He swiped at his mouth with his arm, then looked away.
The girl, now down on the carpet, stared up at us. Her red-painted lips, parted in surprise. A burning cigar next to her hand.
All eyes in the room were on me.
But I... I didn't drop my gaze from my father's face. Didn't hold back the loathing I felt for him. Let him see how I really felt.
There was a brief moment of hesitation, a small hint of shame in his eyes.
It was gone in an instant.
He sat back down, grabbed his cigar, and took a long pull. Then he waved a hand, staring at the back wall. "You must be tired." Dismissing me. "You've had a big day. Go to bed."
I didn't speak as I left the room and walked into the kitchen. It was filled with food––pots of rice and meat cooking on the stove, with my attentive mother stirring them. Countertops were cluttered with spices and dirty dishes. A delicious smell coming from the oven.
My mom must've been cooking all day, preparing all this shit while Rook's nana suffocated to death.
I passed by her, headed towards the fridge. She didn't look at me as I walked by, didn't address what had just happened.
The men began to chat excitedly again, the smell of pot now filling the air.
"Hey!" my mom cried, calling to them. "I'm almost done in here!"
"It'll just make us hungrier for that shit you're cooking," my father grumbled and the men laughed again.
She glared at the wall between the back room and the kitchen, staring silent daggers at my father.
She'd heard him.
Of course she did. She might pretend that she was deaf but she could hear just fine. She knew exactly what was going on in this house.
My emotions threatened to boil over. I opened the fridge, took in the rows of fresh food. Fucking full.
Everything was replaced more than once a week, including our pantry and the chest freezer in the garage.
A quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise.
A flash of yellow, sixties-style carpet, fists gripping and pounding. A howl of pain.
Rage boiling over, I grabbed a bottled water––glass. Four dollars each, and there were twelve of them, replaced every few days.
The scrape of a spatula, the sizzle of grease. Laughter. Burning expensive leaves. Champagne.
