Changed {Martin Garrix Fanfiction}

Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty Two - Well That's Too Bad 

- Martin's POV - 

11 Months Ago Narration 

I stare at my half empty glass of strong, brown liquid. It's my third drink or wasn't my second? Maybe fourth? Shit, I can't remember and frankly, I don't care. The more that is in my system, the better. I feel numb and I don't want to feel anything, so it is working perfectly for me at the moment. 

I take another small gulp of the liquid and it burns my throat, but I push past it. It's nearly been one month since the accident happened and nothing has changed for me. I came back to Amsterdam, wanting - hoping to forget what happened, but it's the complete opposite. I think about it everyday, every second. I can barely sleep without it crossing my mind every five minutes. 

I can't describe what I feel because I honestly don't know what or how to feel. If I had to pinpoint one thing, it would be guilt. I feel so fucking guilty and there is nothing I can do about it. I'll have to live with this for the rest of my life. 

Nothing or no one will be ever to make the numbness go away. 

I tip my glass up again and the screech of a door awakens my senses. I finish it in one gulp and turn towards the door that enters the dining room. I have to stop myself from groaning when I see the figure of my father making his way into the connected kitchen. 

I stay silent and my eyes watch him intensely. I've always had a boiling hatred for him. Even when he has been nice to me or not been harsh, I've still found something in me to hate him. Whatever my mother found attractive to him, he has yet to show that to me. My mother deserves better than the piece of shit standing near me. 

"Martijn," he greets me and his voice is slightly groggy. I also have no idea if it is my head messing with me, but I can smell alcohol not just from me, but him too. I don't say a word. "Where's your mother?" his Dutch is rapid and stern. 

"She went out," I finally speak, having to clear my throat in the process. His grey eyes that match mine study my face before they trail down to the table. They land on my empty glass and a disapproving look flashes across his face. 

He mumbles something underneath his breath and my jaw clenches automatically, my eyes narrowing at him. Prick. 

"You can speak up you know," I spit, shoving the glass away from me, breathing in and out of my nose heavily. 

"I was just noticing how you've chosen to deal with your... situation so poorly," he says in a remarked tone. "I would think you would have had some decency to clean yourself up and get some help," he comments, "That's how I raised you to be." 

"You didn't fucking raise me and you never have," I say angrily, gripping on of my hands on the side of the table, trying not to lose my temper.