On the third week, the last week of no football, me and Louis are back at Papa's house.
Of course, being here just has to ruin everything. In perfect timing. He has just perfect timing of messing up his son.
I accidentally tracked mud in, and completely forgot that it was my duty for cleaning up the kitchen, because I was on the phone with Brooke. It was stupid, I know. It is my fault. But what comes next is completely not my fault.
With both my parents, making certain mistakes are absolutely terrifying.
And I make a lot of stupid mistakes.
There is this very strange thing, and it is about taking things for granted. When things are good, I am happy. When bad things happen in the midst of good, I get very, very angry. Even more angry than I would. And to begin with, I would be mad.
So I rage.
I was laying on my bed, talking to Brooke and looking at her beautiful face on a video call, when my father screamed at me from the kitchen, "Antoine, get your f***ing a** in here right now!"
I quickly told Brooke that I had to go, and that I would call her back. She, being so amazing and understanding, smiled kindly, and let me hang up.
I went downstairs, blazing with anger at the interruption of our conversation. After my father yelled at me about what I had failed to do and called me 'the worst mistake of his life', I couldn't hold anything in any longer. I burst out at my father, letting out my true anger. I blew up. He slapped me. I punched him. He slammed me into the corner of the kitchen sink, continuing to yell at me about how worthless I was and how 'his marriage failed because of me'.
I turn back at him, gasping for breath at the push and say too quietly, "Your marriage failed because of me?"
"Of course it did, Antoine. You really are that stupid, that you haven't picked that up, huh?" he speaks in a lower tone, moving closer to me, a gentle arm out, as if I'm some insane, crazy beast or something. I hate him. I hate him. "Because of inability to control your emotions. Because we had to bring you to counseling, which rid us of all our money. Because you were always so needy. You could not take care of yourself when you needed to. You are my worst mistake, and so many times I wish you were never f***ing born!" He suddenly gets loud there in the end, yelling right up in my face. Spitting in his face. His breath smells like horrible alcohol and stale cigarettes. And maybe a little bit of dirty dog, too.
My lungs hurt. My head aches. My hands shake. My legs tremble. My whole body is warm but also cold. My eyes get wet. My feelings tingle.
I stop all of that, slip passed him, and say simply, cold, like never before, "I will get my chores of cleaning the floor and dishes done before tomorrow." My voice is like hard, painful, blood-stained ice.
