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He chuckled and shook his head. “Not that I know of. Now, get your ass up and come here.” He didn’t wait for me; he turned on his heel and walked away, back into the hall. Dad knew I’d follow him. I had to.
Sometimes, it was easier to be silent and nod when the anger inside of him came out. Apologize for whatever it was he was blaming you for so you could move on. Do what he wanted, so he’d stop.
Still, that didn’t stop my skin from prickling as I stood and shuffled my feet to my door. I had a hoodie on, along with sweats; typical at-home clothes for me. Comfort over beauty any day.
Did that mean I never wanted to dress up? To put makeup on, glam myself up, and go to a party or something? No. I was still a girl. I daydreamed about boys a lot, what would happen if I met someone at a party and we hit it off, when this hypothetical guy couldn’t take his eyes off me.
But I was also a realist, and I knew that would never happen.
My fingers fiddled with my phone in my hoodie pocket as I followed Dad down the stairs, to the kitchen. We lived in an older house, small, compared to a lot of newer builds in the area. We lived in an old suburb just outside of the city, where a lot of houses, when they went for sale, were bought by flippers who fixed them up.
We weren’t so lucky. Everything was just old here, and Dad had stopped taking care of the place after my stepmom died and my stepbrother left.
Dad stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter near the stove, staring at me with glazed eyes. “Can you see the problem, Taylor? I know you’re not the brightest, so I’ll give you a minute.” His fingers scratched along the side of the cheap laminate countertop. It wasn’t the first time he’d called me stupid, and it wouldn’t be the last. It’s just who he was.
“I—” It was then I realized what it was he was upset about: dinner wasn’t ready for him. It wasn’t even cooking. “I’m sorry, I was doing homework—” I went to one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a pan. I was pretty sure we had some chicken I could cook up.
It was seconds after I’d put the pan on the stove that I felt fingers pull my hair and yank me back. I caught myself on the counter near the sink, rubbing the side of my head as I stared at my dad. “I’m sorry! I forgot! I won’t forget again.”
He snarled out, “I’ve heard that excuse before, haven’t I? I’m sick and tired of it, Taylor.” He lumbered his way over to me, glaring at me like he hated me. “I go to work every day so you can play around in your classes—”
Well, he didn’t go to workeveryday, but I wasn’t going to argue with him about it, so I kept my mouth shut.
“And I only ask for one thing,” he growled out, stepping before me. He stood a little over six inches taller than me, but right then, he definitely seemed like he towered over me easily. “For dinner to be ready when I get home. Is it that fucking hard?”
“No,” I whispered.
“What’s that?” He touched his ear, like he hadn’t heard me.
“I said no!” This time I lost it: I shouted at him, right at his face. “It’s not fucking hard, but it isn’t one fucking thing, either! You want me to cook, clean, do the laundry, mow the grass—you want me to do everything you’re supposed to do! You’re the parent, not me. You’re—”
I knew I shouldn’t have exploded at him, but I was tired, and so sick of it. I hated being treated like that, hated being talked to like that, especially in my own house. I didn’t feel like I was safe here… because I wasn’t, and that fact was proven by my dad when he did what he did next.
His hands shot up, and within seconds, they curled around my neck. “I’m what?” he spat out, spittle flying at my face as those hands of his squeezed. “What am I, kiddo? I’m apparently dumb as a rock, so why don’t you enlighten me?” With every word he spoke, the choking grew harder.
I couldn’t breathe. I smacked at his wrists, moving my lips to try to tell him I couldn’t breathe, but he either wasn’t getting it or he didn’t care. I then tried to struggle with the rest of my body, but he had me in a good grip, and he was stronger than me. There wasn’t anything I could do.
But then my eyes spotted a glass in the sink, dirty, from breakfast. Our dishwasher had been broken for two years now, so I’d been handwashing everything every day.
Sputtering for any bit of air I could get, I stopped hitting him and went to grab the glass. My fingers just barely reached. Dad was too busy choking me, trying to teach me a lesson for talking back with sick glee, to see me go for it. My left hand grabbed it just as my vision grew blotchy, everything hazy.
I didn’t know where I was aiming it; I let instinct take over. My left hand curled around the glass, and I swung it as hard as I could at my dad’s face. It hit him right on the temple, the glass shattering and cutting into us both.
Pain erupted in my hand, but it was nothing compared to the state of my neck when he let it go, stumbling back and clutching the side of his head.
“You fucking bitch,” he growled out.
I didn’t stand there and wait for him to attack me again—because I knew that’s what would happen. I couldn’t. So, I did the only thing I could: I darted away from him, sprinting out of the kitchen, to the front door.
My good hand was on the lock, unlatching it, as my feet hurriedly slipped on a pair of old tennis shoes. I had the door open the very same moment my dad yelled from the kitchen, “If you walk out that fucking door, don’t you fucking come back, you hear me? You better not come back!”
I let his words hit me, only for one second, and then I ran out the door like a bat out of hell.
Dinner. It was all over stupid dinner and me not having it ready. I’d honestly forgotten, too engrossed in trying to get a head start on that stupid paper. And now I was at my stepbrother’s place, because I didn’t have any close friends I could turn to without having to explain to them how fucked up my home life was—and I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want what few friends I’d gained in college to know that part of me.
Heck,Ididn’t want to know that part of me. It wasn’t something I was proud of. It was a part of me that made me sick to my stomach, a part of me I wished I could change. Some people were proud of the person they were, but I wasn’t.
But what else could I have done? I didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t have a mom or a brother anymore. I never had close friends come over, because I didn’t want them to see and deal with my dad. The life I could’ve had had been splintered because of him.
