Dimokre Chronicles Book 2: Sarah's Fate

Chapter 3 - Thanks for Nothing.

"Daddy!" Eight-year-old Michael laughed as he ran down the hallway. He pulled up his blue pajama pants covered with spaceships. He crashed into walls from running so fast, but that didn't dim his excitement.

A blur of red went to the front door, so Michael dashed to follow. He jumped on the tall man's legs. He giggled, waiting to be picked up to ride on his dad's back or shoulders. Michael beamed up at him expectantly.

His dad's bright green eyes narrowed, his hair so red and so bright he looked like his head was on fire. His broad shoulders slumped, and his wide jaw clenched. His jeans were tucked into tall boots, and a thick winter jacket was over his plaid, long-sleeved shirt.

Michael's eyes scanned to the stuffed backpack slung over his right shoulder.

"Go back to sleep, Mikey," he stated sternly.

Michael didn't give up. "Happy Thanksgiving, Daddy! We're leaving already? I thought the camping trip was going to be after we eat."

"No camping trip this year, Mikey. I'm leaving."

Michael paused for a second. He stumbled away from his dad, suddenly feeling very awkward and out-of-place. He waited for his dad to say he was kidding, to scoop him up or ruffle his hair. Something.

"... Without us?" Michael asked. "Why?" Michael glanced around for his mom, about to ask if she was in the car already.

Michael's mom leaned against the wall by the couch, watching them talk. One of her cheeks was black and blue, fresh from a recent slap. Tears filled up in her sad, hazel eyes and streamed down her face as her whole body trembled. Thin, black strands had strayed from her messy bun. She wore her nightgown with her pale blue robe wrapped tightly around her. She hugged her arms and held down her robe like it was armor.

"You see that woman there, Mikey?"

Michael stared at his mom holding back tears with the bruise blooming across her face. He stared up at his dad, taking a step back. "You mean Mommy?"

His mom stiffened. Her voice was worn and thin. "Hunter, please, for Michael's sake, just be civ—"

"I can't stand her anymore," he interrupted and laughed, like it was such a casual and funny thing to say. "And you, you little imp—" He chuckled and squeezed his son's cheeks. It was much harder than he ever had before.

Michael winced and rubbed his red face.

Humor drained from Hunter's voice and facial expression in an instant. "—look just like her." He hesitated and humored himself by saying, "Mikey, there comes a time in a man's life where he's got to realize he's trapped in a place he doesn't care about with a woman he's tired of fucking and a kid who's clearly becoming a huge disappointment."

Hunter stood up, stretching. He announced, "I've found another woman, and I'm starting a new, better life with her. Maybe eventually, you'll be old enough to understand and want to join me." He shrugged. "If you decide to grow a pair, come find me."

Then he turned to his wife and smiled, "Try not to miss me, babe." With that, he dropped his wedding ring into the bowl they put their keys in, followed by his house key. Hunter yanked open the door, and the November Missouri wind rushed in. He held the door with his hand on the outside doorknob. His hand reddened from the cold.

"Oh—" Hunter turned back, his green eyes flashing angrily as he said with a smug smile, "—and Happy Thanksgiving."

Both Michael and his mom stood there in silence, Michael's eyes filling up with tears. That wasn't the father that Michael knew. He was fun and cool and kind. He rarely hit, and when he did, Michael probably deserved it.