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When I saw Beth later that day, I mentioned to her that I felt like I was being followed earlier, and she asked why I couldn’t ride the bus. She also said to be careful, because in this world, you never knew what kind of psychopath could be waiting for you just around the corner.
All that was true. I wasn’t saying it was false, but come on. Who the hell would want to come after me?Me? I was no one. Again, only my dad and Hailee popped up in my head, and I doubted either of those two would actually go through with it. Plus, my dad worked during the day. Unless he took off to stalk me, there was no way it could be him.
I had foolish hope that I wouldn’t feel that same invisible, nagging, eerie feeling when I walked home… but I did. I did, and this time, I found out why.
I walked with a fast pace, quicker than I normally did, and right when Creed’s high rise came into view, a car suddenly pulled off the street, its right side coming up onto the sidewalk right in front of me, maybe five feet away.
My feet skidded to a halt, a sinking feeling in my gut—because I recognized that car. It was old, a little rusted, beat up in its age, but that’s just what happened to old cars.
Something in me jumped to the surface: that scared little girl I used to be. She made me motionless as I watched my dad get out of the car, walk around the vehicle and onto the sidewalk, heading straight for me. I didn’t move, didn’t say a thing, not even as he took me by the arm and dragged me to the car, yanking open the passenger door and slamming it shut after pushing me inside.
It was almost like I wasn’t there, not really, like I was on the sidelines, watching it happen in horror without the strength or the ability to step in and stop it. Like I was watching a movie, albeit a shitty movie that I never wanted to see in the first place.
Maybe I was so shocked at seeing my dad, at his sheer audacity to do what he did, that all logic evaporated within me. How else could I explain the fact that I didn’t fight him, didn’t try to break free from him or get out of the car after he pushed me in? How else could I explain away the reason that I merely stared off into the distance, unable to fully comprehend what was happening?
It all happened fast. Faster than the guard to Creed’s building could react. He saw what happened, but by the time he ran over to us, my dad had pulled the car back onto the street, and we were off.
“So that’s where he lives, huh?” my dad was busy saying as we drove off. “Fancy fucking place. Funny how he could abandon us to go live the high life when his mother died without looking back. We could’ve used the money—”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. In fact, I could barely hear my dad mumbling that. I sat there, my hands on my lap, practically mute. My schoolbag had fallen to the floor of the passenger seat, resting between my knees.
“And you,” my dad said, shooting a heated glare in my direction. “Don’t even get me started on you. Did you think I’d let you go whoring yourself out to your brother just so you could get away from me? You’re my daughter, Taylor, so what I say goes, and I say you ain’t living with Creed no more. You’re coming home with me, where you belong, and that’s that.”
The hatred in his voice was palpable, practically tangible, and still I said nothing. It was obvious he hated Creed, felt deprived that Creed had money and he didn’t. Maybe if he didn’t spend most of his checks on booze he would have more money to spare—but I’d learned my lesson a long time ago when it came to pointing that out; Dad didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything that refuted his views on any subject.
Dad fumed as he drove us home, out of downtown and toward the old neighborhood we lived in. Watching the scenery change from high rises and new buildings to old, dilapidated houses was a bit of a shock; I think I’d gotten used to living downtown, in a fancy apartment, with Creed. It wasn’t that far away, and yet it was like a whole different world.
And, honestly, Dad didn’t live in a terrible place. Our house was just the worst looking because he never kept up with it. Never did yardwork, never fixed any broken siding that windstorms had knocked off. Everything had always been up to me, and there were just some things I could never do, like climb onto a ten-foot tall ladder we didn’t have to fix the siding.
I’d paid the bills. I’d done the laundry. I’d cooked in addition to doing my homework and trying to live my own life, but as it turned out, being the parent when you were nothing but a child was hard, and doing it while your so-called dad took every opportunity to remind you how worthless you were was even harder.
And that said nothing about all those times when he’d been so drunk that he’d pushed me around. The feeling of his hands around my neck was something I didn’t think I’d ever forget, something that would stick with me until the day I died.
If my dad had his way, I’d die the day he died, because after he was dead, I’d have no reason to keep living. I was his servant, his slave, not his child. I was someone whose responsibility it was to take care of him, not the other way around.
Dad pulled into the driveway of his house, pulling all the way back to the garage. He parked the car, turned her off, and got out in a huff. He said not a single word more as he walked around the car and pulled me out, his grip on my upper arm so tight it hurt. He dragged me into the house, and the moment we stepped inside, he took my bag off and dropped it onto the floor, near the area where we always put our shoes. I was so out of it I didn’t even cringe when I heard the laptop hit the floor inside the bag.
“You’re going to your room to think about what you put me through,” my dad hissed out, a frown on his face. He took me to the stairs, lugging me up, not caring that he held onto my arm so awkwardly I tripped. He didn’t stop; he kept going, and once we reached my room, he practically threw me inside.
I was able to catch myself from tripping that time, slow to turn around and face him. My mouth opened, but no words came from me. All I could do was stare at my dad in confusion, in horror, and wonder why this was happening.
My dad glared at me, and it hit me: he looked old.
Maybe he’d always looked so haggard and rough, but it never really occurred to me just how old he looked until right now. That’s what drinking so much did to you; it aged you, made your insides turn on you quicker than they naturally would. He wasn’t that old, in his mid-forties, but he appeared so much older than that today.
“I don’t want to hear a single word from you until I get an apology,” he whispered, his mouth curled into a frown. He wore the unhappy expression everywhere on his face, in his eyes and on his forehead. He said nothing else, grabbing my doorknob and slamming my door shut. I heard his heavy footsteps as he walked down the hall.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, staring at the door, how long it took for me to regain some sense of self. It might’ve been a minute, it might’ve been five. I didn’t know. Time was acting weird today—then again, the whole freaking day was weird.
Was this really happening? Was this real? My thoughts began to race as reality finally set in. It felt like a dream, and yet a part of me told me it was all very real. This was the culmination of the fight I’d had with my dad all that time ago, the one where he’d gotten so pissed at me he’d choked me and nearly killed me.
And if he did it once, he’d do it again. What if the next time it happened, there was no dirty glass in the sink? What if it happened and there was nothing in reach I could use to defend myself?
What if he killed me?
I didn’t want to die. I had so much more I wanted to do, so many things I wanted to see, so much more I wanted to experience with Creed. By God, for the first time in my life, I wanted tolive.
Was that really so wrong? Was I in the wrong here? A part of me, that same part of me that had refused to defend myself against my dad for so long told meIwas the one who was wrong, that my dad was right. After all, I wouldn’t exist without him, didn’t I owe him?
