Bitter

thirty-two - cal

   Not one, not two, but three messages from Lydia. That's what I woke up to when I rolled out of bed, still dazed and stumbling into the bathroom. They had all been sent at 12:12 AM and I blinked the sleep from my eyes to read them.

He wanted me to help kill you, the first one said.

It's bad, the second one read.

Oh and he knows where I live too, the last one stated in a blue bubble.

Well, that wasn't good. What a way to start my day. Haley had been talking about my death with Lydia. It wasn't much of a shocker though since he always had this murderous look on his face, especially when he saw me. And he knew where Lydia's house was? If she didn't lock her doors at night already, she had better start.

I splashed some water on my face from the bathroom sink, just to wake myself up more, then traveled downstairs where Dad had already claimed his spot on his recliner chair in the living room. There was a single lamp on and he was watching some documentary, though the volume was turned down almost all the way so I doubt he was interested in it. I slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a granola bar that was sitting on the counter, free for the taking, then headed back to the stairs.

"Cal?" Dad's voice carried over to me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't jump a little at the sound of it. "Can you come here a second?"

I watched him warily from across the room as he leaned forward, actually sitting up for once. He was wearing this tired look, the same one Mom gave me when she was disappointed with me (which was all the time by the way). I took a few hesitant steps towards him, finally coming into the little circle of yellow light the lamp cast (that my eyes were in no way used to yet after having just woken up).

   "You can sit down," Dad told me, patting the couch right beside his chair. He wouldn't look at me when he spoke.

   I did as he said, slowly. Then I waited for him to continue, my hands finding their way into my sweatshirt pockets. The clock on the wall ticked. People's voices hummed together from the documentary. Someone started up their car outside.

   Dad then buried his head in his hands and I just sat there, staring at him. I didn't know if I was supposed to do something, but then I saw his shoulders shaking and heard a gasp. I had seen my dad cry before, but not like this. I had thought for sure that he wasn't capable of producing tears, but now I knew I was very wrong.

   After about a minute of silence, I shifted closer to the edge of the couch. "Dad?" I tried, not sure if I wanted to see his face.

   He looked up anyway, wiping the tears from his eyes self-consciously. "Sorry, Cal, I didn't mean to..." He trailed off, searching for more words, but found none. "It's hard, you know?" he said, voice breaking.

   Surprisingly, I felt myself nodding.

   "I just," he began, sniffling, "I wanted to let you know that you can talk to us. Mom and me. We can all get through this together, you don't have to deal with it alone." I noticed he was looking at the bruises on my face. "Whatever you're doing, I just want you to be careful, okay? I know you snuck out on Saturday night but—"

   "Is this another one of Mom's lectures? She's having you give them now?" I cut in, anger already steaming inside me.

   "No, no, Mom doesn't know about it," Dad assured me. "This is coming from me, okay? I just don't want you seeking trouble because—"

"I'm not seeking trouble, Dad. You think this is about what happened in summer, right? You're always thinking about that, it's never anything else," I retorted, pushing myself to my feet.