Child of War; Revolutionary OC

Chapter 2. Rising Flames

The days grew longer now that mom wasn't here to help.

I had to learn how to cook (simple things)- so we could eat.

My father, however, spent his days drinking away and lounging with women. Every week, he had another young miss in the house. I grew angrier with him than I could ever grow with the girls. Undoubtedly, he manipulated them into following.

I would warn them each time.

"He's not as nice as he acts," I would explain, "he will grow bored quickly and turn to hurt you."

And they would leave.

Father grew angry, wondering why they would disappear. Of course, he took the blame onto me. He would shout, call me names, and call my mother names. I began to grow tired, and slowly, it stopped hurting.

By the time I was nine, I still wasn't permitted to go to school- my father wouldn't have it. Mom was gone, and someone needed to take care of the house. So, I did my hand and learned how to do small tasks. I remember watching the way mom did some of these things.

But, I was allowing James opportunities I couldn't have. I managed to get our father to sign him into school. I would prepare James for the day and walk him down the block every morning, getting him to his classes safely. Then I'd hurry back home and get started with chores.

Much similar to the start of today.

It was mid-winter here in England, and it was rather cold. I had just gotten my brother to school, so I was freezing as I walked back into the house. I blew a puff of air onto my hands, kneeling by the fireplace, adding some wood to the little that remained burning from last night. It was oak wood, shipped in from the New World- or that's what the merchant claimed.

I stood up, looking around. The house was clean, but the laundry needed washing and a couple of the fabrics needed to be seamed together.

That can wait until the sun rises.

"Johnson."

"What do you want?" I muttered, brows knit together as the man walked downstairs.

"Don't you have breakfast ready?"

"No, I didn't know you were home," I glared up from what I was doing.

"Goddamnit, kid- you see, you're going to be as fucking useless as your mother if you keep acting like this. Pay attention for once in your life. And don't take a tone with me, young man. I am your father."

My face heated as I turned away from him.

"Sorry, sir. I'll get your breakfast ready-"

"No! Don't even bother, you bastard. I'm leaving anyway."

I turned back to him. "Don't come back!" I shouted before I could realize what I was saying. I covered my mouth, eyes widening. My father grew silent, staring at me. 

He drew close, so I puffed my chest, meeting his gaze. "Care to repeat yourself,  rat?" He growled, leaning close. I could smell the alcohol on his breath; it was sickening.

"Don't come back."

He scoffed, drawing his hand back. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for what I knew was coming. Sure enough, a sharp sting went across my face, and I stumbled backward. 

Despite the tears that poured down my face, I looked back at him, glaring. He seemed so disappointed as he walked away from me. But I didn't make a scene until I heard the front door close. 

I fell to my knees, holding onto my cheek, letting tears fall down my face. I backed against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest.

How was this fair?