𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟷𝟸. 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

Thank you for 37k. It's unreal.

TW: talk of past parental abuse, both physical / mental and panic attacks. Please be wary.

Remember to comment, vote, and follow. It's not a requirement, only a suggestion, but it really does help my story on the Wattpad platform. 🖤

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The vivid colors, the sense of floating, and the overall contentment you have been relishing in for the last hour have now faded to black, all because of the most cynical person you have ever known.

Your Father, Keith.

It's been a while since you've heard from him, months if you remember correctly, but no time set between would ever be enough, not even eternity itself.

Doing the math quickly in your head, you calculate that he's out of rehab. Either that or he dropped out the same way he has thousands of times before because, in his head, he doesn't need it. He has himself fully convinced that he is a 'good man' and that getting help is only
for those who are 'weak.'

Bullshit.

Your stomach curls around itself as you prepare to read the message he wrote. It feels like you're bracing for the impact you know is about to come.

You turn your brightness down on your phone screen to the lowest it will go, not wanting to cause a disturbance to the darkened room.

Letting out a breath through your nose, the faint sound of it being hidden by the dialog of the playing movie, you hesitantly open the text. Reading it, your teeth crash together, making your jaw ache.

Y/N. You left Stohess?
Have you lost your damn mind?
This was an extremely poor choice
that you made. Where the hell
are you? Call me. ASAP. Urgent.

It's the middle of the night, but it's not like you're surprised by the timing of him trying to reach out to you; he's never been one to act with a single ounce of graciousness.

You've received texts from him a million times in the past. 2 am. 5 am. Noon. All different ranges of times but always the same meaning.

He's either in trouble or needs money, and of course, you are expected to do something about it. To fix whatever mess he got himself into this time around. It's the same old narrative. Never does it change.

Another text pops up from him; your blurred eyes fixate on it.

Need I remind you that people
in Stohess talk? I'm sure I can find
your location if needed.
Consider returning my calls.

A threat? Is he fucking serious?

You have always been aware that he's crazy, but he has lost his damn mind if he thinks you're going to willingly reply to any of his stupid efforts to try and get ahold of you.

With your fingers curled in angrily around the base of your phone, you press your thumb deeply into the screen and delete the texts. You then open your call log and erase the missed calls and voicemails without listening to a single word from the several that he left in your inbox.