Ready For Love

Chapter 2

Shandrelle | PM

Clock ticks.

Spin.

And turn.

Clock ticks.

Spin.

And turn.

Clock ticks.

Oh, shut up!

Clock ticks.

Oh for the love of—

Bang!

A loud thud rings to my ear as the tiny object on the bedside table smashed and hit against the wall- thanks to my flops thrown at it, to which held responsible by me.

Silence prevails after.

Better.

Much, much bet—

My brows pulled together in between while eyes closed as a sharp, creaking sound started to occupy the room.

Now, what?!

"Daaad! Fucking hell!"

"Language young lady" he stood up and walked around in circles inside my room picking up unnecessary objects that were on the floor.

"Thank you for your service. You may now rest in peace number 9" he apologetically gave a speech to the last item he picked up - my alarm clock, 9th alarm clock that I ended its life.

"You could've killed me with that! Jesus!" I scrunched up my face in annoyance.

"Honey, a pillow couldn't possibly end your life like that" now he picked up the soft and squishy cushion he just threw at me while I was sleeping.

Could you believe that? Imagine how evil my father is! Damn!

"Rise and shine kiddo!" I lie at my stomach as soon as the rays of sun passed through the shutters he just opened which struck my eyes.

What time is it?

Oh, I forgot I just fucking broke it.

"Get your ass up! Then sun is wide awake, have shame" he pulled the sheets providing heat in my body.

"It's eight in the morning" and added as he stole a glance on his wristwatch.

Hate in the morning!

This routine takes me back to when I was still in middle grade. Either he would bang nonstop on my bedroom door or he would sneak himself all the way in without further notice and just threw me with whatever he sees that can be thrown. I was quite lucky that I got a mushy object landed on my face this time. The last couple of years made me realize that my father is a psychopath, I mean, who would throw you a goddamn lampshade or a telephone or an alarm clock? Jesus. But the worst part was a sock. His fucking stinky sock. Jesus Christ! I got really, really mad at him that day but he didn't took it seriously and instead he just laughed his ass off. When you're unfortunate enough to be blessed with a mad father, you might need to ask for another one.

I got up on all fours and made myself comfortable by sitting on my bed. Stretched my limbs like I was a cat that just woke up from a 16 hours sleep.

"Dad, I know I'm pretty and divine as hell but I do not, and most certainly not look like a freaking flower of some sort" I rubbed my eyes, swollen, probably due to lack of sleep.

"Bud, I don't seem to follow" he arched his right eyebrow.

Dad can sometimes be as slow as a tortoise.