Autumn

12) Wanker

Hey Kids- Molina

"My head is a hive of words that won't settle"

-Virginia Woolf

*****
TW: Verbal Abuse

I take my key out to unlock the front door, and I'm hoping, hoping, hoping, that no one is awake right now. I'm fucking drained from that party and everything that followed.

I don't feel like dealing with anything else.

My prayers are answered when I twist the door knob to come face to face with a dimly lit and silent house.

The only lights coming from the microwave and oven clock.

I take that as my chance to quietly rush up the stairs to my room, but I'm stopped when I see a figure standing in front of my room.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I hear footsteps make there way towards me and it makes all the hairs on my arm stand on edge.

A light switch flicks and a face appears in front of me, "Oh look who finally decided to come home," My dad slurs, and it makes me wish I was still in the car with Reid.

I stand there as he walks closer, his sour breath smelling potent.

"I was starting to think you ran off with one of your boy toys like your fucking mother," I can see the disgust in his eyes.

He scans me top to bottom, "Though I wouldn't have been surprised with that revolting outfit you have on. Where were you?" He questions.

"I was out," I respond with a stoic expression. I just want to go to my room.

"Out?" His repeats, his accent coming out stronger.

He weakly laughs, "si secret," he tsks and shakes his head. I'm nervous, he's never this calm when he drinks. [so secretive]

He starts walking towards me again and raises his hand in the air, causing me to flinch. He gives me a faint smirk, as if seeming pleased by my reaction.

He comes closer to the side of my head, "I suggest you stop coming home so late. I miss spending time with you ma fille," I stand there waiting for him to leave. [my daughter]

He walks past me, and I start walking towards my room, only to see the door already wide open.

As he starts walking down the stairs, he halts in his step, "Oh and you should get a better lock for your door."

I'm confused by his comment, until stepping a foot in my room, only to immediately fall on my knees to the floor.

It's destroyed.

My bed sheets are cut up or torn, and my clothes are out of their now damaged and dented drawers, sprawled on the floor. My desk chair is flipped, and the lamp that was on the desk is shattered. The miscellaneous items that had specific spots in my room are now broken, and the curtains I bought are ripped.

No wonder he seemed so calm.

The one spot in this house that hadn't been infected by them yet.

The one place in houses that's supposed to be a safe spot. I feel the tears building up, begging to be spilled.

I want to cry.

I want to cry.

So...so much

But that's never gotten me anywhere. Spilled tears haven't done shit for me in life, except make me more of a burden.