The New Student

Chapter 42

Naomi's POV

Shock and anger exploded through me. But an emotion I didn't expect to filter through me, was sadness. I couldn't understand why I was sad. But at the same time, I understand perfectly. 

"Sweets, I'm so-"

"NO!" I shout before he can even fake the apology. Sweets. The nickname I've had since I was born. Sometimes I thought that was my actual name, I heard it so much. My mom refused to call me Sweets, she thought I would hate it when I got older but I still loved it. But now, it sounds so wrong. 

"Those tears I might have shed for your dark fate, grow cold and turn to tears of hate!" I quote from The Phantom of the Opera. I don't know why, but it seems to fit this moment perfectly. 

"I never understood you. You were always so confusing to me," I tell my "father" as he observes me. 

"I just have one question," I state,  slowly making me way towards him. Before I did though, I feel a gun being forced into my hands from behind. I don't hesitate to take hold of it before tucking it into my loose sweats. I hear Dylan call my name in warning but I know my "father" would never think to hurt me now that I know everything about him. He knows I'm willing to kill him at this point. if he doesn't know, then it just makes his fate so much better. 

"Who came first?" I question. If I knew he was going to have two children from different parents I hope he would have the common decency to at least tell me how everything happened, and I swear if he says what I think he will, I'm gonna lose it. 

"You," he says with a sigh, avoiding all eye contact with me. He's ashamed, as he should be. You're shitting me right now. Before I could even process what I was doing, the gun was in my hand I had already pulled the trigger. 

He screamed erratically before hitting the ground, clutching his stomach that was now oozing with blood. I want him to die painfully and slowly, before landing in the place that he deserves to be in.

I walk to his side and crouch down, getting slightly close and whispering to him, "You can have excuses or results, not both, remember?" I ask him, returning the words he once always told me. He first told me that when I was eight. I was riding my bike like an eight-year-old does and I ended up falling off of it from rolling on an uneven curb. Tears rolled down my cheeks from the impact, but I began to ball when I saw the result it made. It left a big scrape on my right thigh, about the size of my hand. 

I cried and cried, especially when it began to ooze blood. I screamed for my parents, holding onto the cut with an almost painful grip. When they arrived, my mother instantly cleared my tears and picked me up, along with whispering sweet little nothings into my ear to make me feel better. She set me down on our couch and ran to her room to retrieve medicines. Unlike my dad, who just stood there. Arms crossed, with a cold disappointed expression masking his face. 

"Stop crying. Babies cry and you're not a baby anymore,"  he told me, not showing me any signs of pity. I tried to stop crying, but just ended up choking on my own tears. 

"You want to grow up crying all of your life, being a disappointment go for it. But you're not going to make it out if that's all you do. You can have excuses or results, not both. I didn't raise a whiner. Sometimes I question if you're even my child," he spat out before walking out the house, making sure to slam the door on his way out. 

I remember my mom coming back with aid supplies in her hands, looking around and questioning where her husband went. All I did was wipe my tears and say, "He'll be back."

I didn't know how true that statement was but now I knew whenever he did return, I was going to try my hardest to be the best daughter I could. Even if it got me nowhere but falling asleep on the couch and keeping my grades in tip-top shape only for him to tell me a 94 in science is too low.