Bad Blood

When the going get's tough the tough gets going

When I reached my house, I cringed at the time.

4:20. Shoot.

I was supposed to get here twenty minutes ago!

"Dad's going to kill me," I muttered and quickly sorted through the keys, trying to find the appropriate one.

When I finally found the right key and took a deep breath, I entered the house, making my way towards the kitchen as quietly as I can. I found that my father wasn't at home and sent silent gratitude to the man in the sky.

I placed my bag by the stairs and began cooking dinner as fast as I can. I decided to make something quick, yet delicious, my mom's old favorite pomodoro spaghetti dish.

I finished in fifteen minutes and started to set up the table when my dad opened the front door and stumbled into the house.

Drunk.

His eyes were bloodshot red and the stench of vódka was so strong I could smell it from the kitchen. He also looked like he'd pass out any moment.

He hardly glanced at me as he struggled into the kitchen and slumped down in a nearby chair. He was completely wasted from most likely spending the entire day nearly drinking himself to death at a bar instead of going to work.

I examined him and saw that he had been in a couple of fist fights recently. I spotted a few bruises around his jaw and some dried blood on his nose. My father was known for his short temper and the local police were familiar with him because of his regular bar fights.

He sighed, annoyed at my inspection, and rolled his eyes.

"Stop staring at me like that." He growled.

I looked down at my shoes.

"And bring me my dinner." He ordered.

I nodded and quickly finished setting the table.

When I finished setting it, I hastily took the seat opposite from him and picked at my plate, my body tense because I could almost feel the anger oozing out of him. He was always angry at me, but when he drank, his anger was tenfold.

When he drinks, he's a ticking bomb that can go off at any moment and must be treated with extreme caution. Any wrong movement and he'd explode.

He glanced up at me from his food and when I hesitantly looked back, his expression instantly became angrier.

"Dámn it Brielle!" He yelled and slammed down his fork. I jumped at his sudden outburst but I didn't dare reply, only looking down at my jeans and studying them.

"All I wanted was a nice dinner when I came home today from a stressful day at work." He started to rant. It was better not to speak when he was like this.

I studied the faded color of my jeans and noticed the worn, ripped pieces.

"Instead, I get a useless kid who can't follow simple rules to save her life."

I should get a new pair.

"Why did you get home so late? You didn't think I would notice? Do you think I'm an idiot!"

"I-II.."

"Speak up child and look at me when I'm talking to you!" He slammed both of his hands down on the table and made the chair shriek loudly as he stood up.

I looked up at him with what I hoped was a innocent expression, not wanting to anger him more.

"Don't make me repeat myself again. Brielle Scott, why were you late?" He spat out my last name emphasizing it to show his ownership of me.