Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter Seven:

Saturday started out dull.

I woke up around six, stretching, sitting on my pallet bed until I sighed and knew that prolonging it wasn't worth it. Standing up and dressing in my most casual clothes—a plain black t-shirt, skinny jeans, my yellow cardigan, and Drew's pair of black Converse, which always seemed to fit me—I walked out of my room, my phone in my pocket.

Mom was sitting in the living room, dressed in her most professional suit, her hair pulled up in a chignon. Her eyes were black with eyeliner and her lips were ruddy with lipstick. She looked over at me and smiled despite the knowledge of what was happening. I smiled back.

"No makeup?" she asked.

"No," I answered. I've learned to forget trying to make myself less like Drew; it didn't work. He always knew it was me. I even tried to wear a mask one visit and he just ripped the mask off my face and cut the skin under my ear with the edge of it, telling me that I had no right trying to dishonor Drew by hiding myself. That was the one visit where I didn't even stay; I just turned around and walked home. This was my last Christmas there.

Mom nodded her head and stood up, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her pencil skirt.

With a sigh from both of us, we made our way to the front door. 

++++++++++++++++++

Dad's house was as desolate as I remembered. Three years ago, I was beaten in this house and three years later, I was coming back to possibly await the same fate. I was pressed back in the passenger seat, the seat belt stretched across my breasts.

Mom looked at me from behind the wheel. "You don't have to do this," she said, parking her car at the curb. I groaned and unbuckled my belt, opening the door and climbing out. Outside was cold and I pulled my cardigan tighter around me, walking the few yards across his lawn to his front door. I raised a shaky hand and knocked.

The man who met me could have been mistaken for model-like material. He was tall, built like an athlete, his shirt stretched across his chest and arms. His hair was a dark brunette like Mom's and he was growing beard scruff on his chin. He could have fooled anyone...unless you were me and saw the snake that slithered beneath his skin.

Mom was rigid behind me as I walked into the house, turning to stare at her from the other side of the door. She looked like she would be sick, like the mere thought of me being here was enough to curdle the contents in her stomach.

And maybe it was.

With a determined shove, Carl Andrews, my dad, slammed the door in my mother's face and shut me off from the safety from the outside world. For twenty-four hours, I was his prisoner. 

++++++++++++++++++++++

Dinner at Dad's was usually fend-for-yourself style.

I opened his fridge and peered inside, only to come out empty-handed and the littlest bit hungry. Turning, I began to look through his cupboards and his pantry, trying to find something edible.

"What are you looking for, girl?" Carl asked, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Dinner."

He grunted and walked over to me, reaching past me to pull out a box of macaroni—the box had a picture of Darth Vader on the front. Carl shoved it into my hands, walked over to a cabinet under the sink and pulled out a pan, which he set with a loud thud on his gasoline stove.