𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

62°/ Rage

I promised, so here I am!!!♥️♥️♥️

Who's ready for this one?🌝

~DABI~

The silence in the air was so loud.

God knows it may have been a good thirty minutes. It may have been a good thirty minutes since we all stood there in the living room like statues, still and straight, not daring to move the slightest muscle in our bodies even though heaven knew that we were wrecked, absolutely and wickedly destroyed with the merciless tension from the deafening silence that lingered in the air like an absolute bastard.

And as the time rolled by in all the silence, all our anxiety only kept building up, getting worse and worse, and we stood there to feel its full brunt like it was a punishment. We did not look to the other. Side talks were out of the question. We just stood.

By we, I mean me, Marcus, and of course, Mama Acha. The three of us were partners in this, and neither was ready to utter a word just yet. Neither of us was ready or bold enough just yet to look directly at the man who sat there in front of us. Whether we looked or not, the weight of his glare on all of us could not be missed. Marcus's father was boring holes into every damned pore in our skin. 

He sat there on the main couch of the living room, a perfect spot to oppositely face us and have a perfect view of the three of us altogether. And good lord, he stared. Glared. He death looked. We didn't have to look back at him to know. Like an evil spirit, we felt his gaze heavy on us, following us closely, carefully, in every way deadly.

And his silence. God forbid.

There was something about his silence in pure anger that could raise your heart to your throat. It made you want to choke on your own spit. And with every second that passed, there was that everlasting chilling effect from it that did not falter. The chills passed through, like a slimy, lithering snake, into every tiny vein of your body, into every marrow of your damn bones, and raised the hairs on your skin, dotted it with the finest goosebumps. 

It made it so difficult to breath. Literally. You would have wanted to breath when you noticed that you weren't, but every breath you'd inhale, you'd innocently forget to exhale. And when you did exhale, it was only until you had this maddening choking sensation from breathlessness that you'd remember that you were supposed to go over the process again.

It was the most uncomfortable thing I had ever had to experience all my life. I barely knew the man, but he already scared the absolute crap out of me. 

Mama Acha cleared her throat.

It was about time.

"It was wrong to not tell you about this, Solomon," She said to him. "But we were only trying to help this little girl find a place to stay for the mean time."

I was surprised at how firm she sounded as she spoke to him. It started to look to me like the whole time, she may have been more occupied mentally with looking for words to say for damage control, than being afraid of the consequences were were about to face.

He looked directly at her and I was stunned at how well she stood her ground and looked him right back in the eyes, unfazed by the death glare he had zeroed in on her.

"Obianuju," He said to her. His voice, husky. His tone, deadly quiet. 

"Yeah," She quipped without much a care in her tone.

"You know how I feel about having strangers in the house," He spoke.

For a slight moment, I saw a shift in the dead emotions on her face. Her eyes had flickered with concern hinting at its slightest, and she blinked a number of times more than necessary, clearly in discomfort and a tad bit of guilt.