Intertwined

Through the Looking Glass

My eyes snap open and I listen to the sound of footsteps across the door downstairs and the hum of the fridge when it's opened. Go down stairs or stay upstairs? I bookmark my page and put my book down on my pillow before standing up. Either way I'll have to face him so I just decide to do it now.

He's sitting at the table, eating the food I brought, when I get downstairs. He saws into the pork chop with a knife, one that's been pointed at me before.

I walk to the fridge and open it, "How was work?" I ask softly, pushing the memory away.

He stops chewing and I feel his eyes on my back. "It was fine. Busy." He pauses. "And school?"

I pull out a can of Coca-Cola and pop the tab open, swallowing a sip before I answer him. "It was fine, got an A on my math test." I reply.

He nods and resumes eating, mumbling "Good, good" at the news. Times like this, the cease fire, are the only times I can imagine my father isn't the monster he hides so well. That he doesn't switch personalities like he's Dr. Jekyll. My father hid his Mr. Hyde under a kind, handsome face, thick black curls, light amber eyes, and a perfect white smile. Women swooned over him, but they wouldn't if they could see what was on the inside. Mr. Oliver Carter wasn't quite the man he appeared to be.

I scowl before turning around to face him, making my expression neutral, "Well....i'm going to head back upstairs to start on my homework." I'm halfway to the door when my phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out as I walk upstairs.

It's Jay. He home yet?

I fire back a quick text, Yeah, just got here. He's eating. Right as my foot hits the top step I hear him call me.

"Astraia c'mere and do me a favor?"

I sigh a little, stuffing my phone back in my pocket before I head back downstairs. For some reason he doesn't like seeing me on my phone and has a tendency to take it away from me. One time he asked for it unexpectedly...which resulted the 5 inch long scar I have across the middle of my back today. Scratching at it a little, I walk over to where my father sits, keeping my eyes mostly on the ground, "Yes sir?..."

He watches me for a second before he motions to the fridge, "Can you get me that bottle of Pomerol from the fridge? 2000 LaFleur Pomerol I think." He's all about wine, but normally he's a heavy beer drinker. Mainly on his worst days though....

My hands shake a little. "Sure..." I walk over to the fridge and pull it open nervously. I'm a massive klutz, and although I haven't dropped anything important in years, it's bound to happen again. So as I pull the glass bottle out from behind another, I'm cautious. I then walk over to the cabinet and pull out a long stemmed crystal wine glass, holding it carefully in my other hand. They were originally a wedding gift to him and mom before alcohol came into their life, used only for important dinners and at-home dates. Now they hold no significance and my father barely acknowledges what they were, if he does at all.

My father unbuttons his white sleeves on his dress shirt and loosens his tie before resting his elbows on the table. He has a slight irritated look on his face, probably at how slowly i'm moving, but thankfully he doesn't say anything. A rarity, since normally he always has a mean, snide comment ready for me,

When I finally reach the table,placing the glass down, and use the attachment on the side of the counter to take the cork out, he starts to visibly relax. I try not to look at him as I fill the glass carefully, trying not to mess up and pour the wrong amount. He's very specific about the amount that goes into a certain type of glass, and after years of mistakes I've learned not to make any.

"Will you get on with it already?" He snaps, jolting me. "Hurry the fuck up."

I start to pour a little faster, my hands shaking, and that's when I make my mistake.