𝒀𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾 | the punisher
" she's become like you frank. she's sees a threat, she feels the need to eliminate it."
and you know for you i'd bleed myself dry
for you i'd bleed myself dry
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CHAPTER ZERO — do you even see me
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MY GAZED WAS SILENTLY POWERFUL AS IT BURNED THROUGH THE PORCELAIN AND--SLOWLY COOLING--FOOD LAYERS OF THE PLATE IN FRONT OF ME. In the closeted mind of a 16 year old girl there was nothing more terrifying than an angry father. Her angry father. My angry father, to be exact. The one who sat before me in a bitter silence thickening the tension with every clink of his fork to his plate, blink of his eyes as he stared, tap of his foot as he waited. He was terrifying. But I was stubborn. So I poked mindlessly at the fried chicken breast in front of me as if to say "I'm unbothered. You don't scare me, you won't scare me.".
But with the way my eyes landed on everything in the room except him, my action was contradictory. The lack of eye contact only made the tension thicker.
' ...and I'm definitely lettin' your pops know if I ever catch you here again, I'm callin' the goddamn police'
That's what the old fat guy managed to get into my ears before I could run off--after quite literally throwing me out of his store. I only came for a snack. A snack I didn't have money for. But it didn't matter, I wouldn't get it trouble for it. Not for stealing anyway. My dad was on a site at the time, the time he could take out of his day to send or leave any cash.
"So? You ready to tell me why you got in trouble?"
"What?" I reply. It was bland, my voice. My slouched posture as I gazed back down at my supper.
"Yesterday..." He began. "At the old man's, what'd you do?" He tilted his head. An accusatory tilt. The type of tilt that would make the hairs on your neck stand up straight if you saw it. I only dropped my fork in frustration before finally returning his eye contact.
"I stole."
"What?"
"I stole!" I spoke up, but he wanted more. "It was a snack, alright? Nothing serious."
"And what?" he asks me.
"And...what?" I repeated back to him in puzzlement to his question. And what?
He gives me a long observant look before scooting his chair closer, watching my face intently for a hint of dishonesty as he gesture for me to speak again. But I didn't. He had his fingers interlaced now--a sign of frustration. Stop it.
