Drugs & Dior

Chapter 3

Angela

"Close the door," my father barks. Terrified of what he might do if I don't, I close the door. Frantically, I search for Emmy, our father is unpredictable when he gets mad. He could've easily hurt her too bad for her to survive it without even noticing, and I can't find her. She's not here.

He takes a few steps closer to me, forgetting about Cooper. Good. If he needs to hurt someone, let that someone be me. Cooper doesn't deserve it.

Before I can stop it, my father grabs me by the clothes I'm wearing. His breath smells like cigarettes, and I think he's been drinking whiskey. There's a few wet spots on his shirt almost as if he dribbled it onto his shirt when he was drinking.

"You're supposed to be at work, girl," my father says to me, spewing wet whiskey scented spit all over my face. I refrain from making a face, too scared of what he might do to me if I react badly. Usually, silence is safer than speaking. That way, I can't talk my way into a beating. Not today. "Well?" He asks, expecting me to elaborate.

"I—" I can't think of a lie fast enough. I can't tell him I got fired, not when he's this mad. When is he not this mad? You'd think I'm good at lying since I've lived in a house like this my whole life, right? Well, I'm not. "I got fired," I say, flinching at my own words.

My fathers face turns redder than it has been. Anger is evident on his face.

I'm scared.

He twists my shirt and pulls me closer to him. So close I can feel his breath on my lips. It's disgusting. "You are useless," he says. "Useless."

Then he slaps me.

I yelp out of shock and pain. Putting a hand to my cheek, I watch as my father turns away from me and makes his way to the couch.

The couch he rots in every day. All day. I'm sick of this.

"I'm the useless one?" I ask, following the lazy couch potato. My father stares at me with a mix of confusion, anger, and shock.

"What did you say, girl?" He asks.

"I said; I'm the useless one?" Then I get closer to the couch. "Look who's the one laying in the couch all day, drinking whiskey, smoking, and completely abandoning your kids."

"You—"

I put my hand up and interrupt him. Tears are streaming down my face out of anger and fear. I don't know where this wave of confidence came from. "I just got fired from my job for being late because of you and mom. Because, instead of you acting like a parent, you sit on that stupid couch and waste away drinking while I am forced to step up."

My father stares at me with so much anger on his face I'm scared he'll become violent, but I can't stop.

"I'm just a kid," I tell him, tears streaming down my face, my lips are quivering, snot is dripping out of my nose. "I'm just a kid," I whimper to myself. It's something I haven't been able to tell myself. I've had to forget about myself in order for my siblings to survive. I've been the adult for years. I forgot that I'm just a kid too.

My father gets up from the couch so fast, I can't even take a breath before he's in my face, grabbing me by my wrists so tight I can feel my bones squeezing together. He pulls me in a familiar direction.