An Astronomer's Guide to Falling Angels

Chapter 14

Late that night, Arty pushed open the creaky door to her apartment, the hinges groaning in protest as she stepped inside. The stench of stale beer and the overwhelming odour of cigarettes hit her immediately, a stark reminder that her father was home. She inhaled sharply, her body tensing at the atmosphere that always seemed to hang heavy when he was around.

She moved quietly, as if trying to avoid waking a sleeping beast, but she could hear him in the kitchen, muttering to himself. Her father was already deep in whatever bottle he'd found, his footsteps uneven, the familiar clink of glass against metal echoing through the apartment.

Ignoring the pit of dread settling in her stomach, Arty tiptoed towards her room, hoping to go unnoticed. Maybe if she didn't make a sound, he'd leave her alone tonight. She just needed to get to bed, to figure out what the hell she was going to do about sneaking into La Mascherata.

But her father's voice cut through the silence like a knife.

"Did you come home last night?"

Arty froze mid-step, her back still to him. She considered not answering, just keeping quiet and letting him stew in his own anger until he eventually lost interest. But she knew better. The silence would only provoke him.

Still, she said nothing.

Her father stepped into view, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. "I asked you a question," he growled. "You didn't come home, did you?"

Arty's jaw clenched, her eyes still fixed on the door to her room. If she could just make it past him...

Then his gaze fell on the stove, where the pot of half-cooked instant noodles from that morning still sat, a mess of hardened noodles and congealed broth. His face darkened even more.

"You didn't even clean up after yourself," he sneered, gesturing at the pot. "What are you, some kind of pig? Can't even make a goddamn meal without leaving this place looking like a dump."

She gritted her teeth, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She refused to look at him, to acknowledge the venom in his voice. The last thing she needed was to engage with him now.

"Answer me!" he roared, slamming his hand on the counter, causing the pot to rattle violently.

When she didn't respond, he grabbed the pot from the stove, his eyes blazing with fury. Before Arty could even react, he hurled it at her. The pot flew across the room, crashing against her chest with a dull thud. The lukewarm water splashed over her, and half-cooked noodles slid down her clothes, sticking to her skin like glue.

"Clean it up, you worthless brat!" he shouted.

Arty felt a surge of heat rise up in her, the anger bubbling inside her like a volcano on the verge of erupting. She could handle a lot—years of this had taught her to swallow her pride and keep her head down—but tonight, she'd had enough.

"I'm the pig?" she snapped, finally turning to face him, her eyes blazing. "Look at yourself! This place is a dump because of you!"

Her father's eyes widened in shock for a brief moment, as if he hadn't expected her to lash out. But the surprise quickly melted into something more dangerous—something vicious.

"You watch your mouth," he warned, stepping closer, his voice low and threatening. "You don't talk to me like that."

Arty stood her ground, her chest heaving with the force of her anger. She wasn't going to back down. Not this time.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," she spat. "I'm not a kid anymore, and I'm sure as hell not afraid of you."

That was all it took. In a flash, her father's hand flew out, striking her hard across the face. The slap echoed in the small apartment, the force of it sending her reeling back a step.