It was like every other Friday night. Loud. Confusion. Something always breaks. Isn't that what you get with druggie parents? I guess so. But i never know who the people are I always sit in my room...just listen.
"Dale! Where the fuck is my damn money?!" some random guy yelled at my father.
"I told you I need more fucking time!" my father yelled back.
"That was two weeks ago Dale. What more time do you fucking need?!" the guy yelled breaking a cup, from the sound of glass shattering I assumed.
"Give me another week or so..." my father sighed out.
"How about we not and we just cut you off. Kill you. Then its a done deal." I could tell the guy was smirking, chuckling.
"You sick fucking bastard!" my father yelled and i could hear him spit onto the guy.
I started hyperventilating, going into a massive panic attack. I frantically looked around for my inhaler trying to be quiet. But, I failed i knocked over my large art set.
"What the fuck was that?" the guy yelled i covered my mouth scared.
"Our pest of a daughter." my mother groaned out.
Pest of a daughter? I thought confused, hurt and scared. I'm not a pest...am i?
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Wrong kind of Right || H.S.
FanfictionShe was meant to be killed. He saw part of him in her. So she lived.
