Fallen (editing)

Chapter 7

After I was all cleaned up, Pops gave me some clothes and sent me off to bed.
I climb under the covers of my bed, settling down.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, bracing myself.

Father was lounging in his chair, his legs up against the armrest.
He smirked at me as I come in.
"Did you like my present?"
I glower. "Oh yes. Very thoughtful of you. Sending an assassin to kill your son."
Father laughs. "You should've been more careful. And it took you so long to send it back."
I grit my teeth.
"Oh don't be mad. You need to sharpen your skills. Whatever skills you do have."
I stay silent, grounding my fist into my thigh.
Father leans back against his chair, folding his hands.
"So. Have you made any progress?"
I stare at the ground.
Father frowns. "Are you serious? You are my son. It should not be this hard to do. A couple nations enslaved, others annihilated, I don't see what the problem is."
I glare at him. "Firstly, I don't have any resources or weapons. And the humans speak a completely different language I don't even know. Secondly, how the Djinn am I gonna get the energy to do all that?"
Father cocks his head. "Improvise."
I glare at him, shooting daggers. No, not daggers. Huge self-maintaining swords with razor sharp edges. That's better.
"Why do always give me such ridiculous advice?! For a demon overlord, you're pretty useless," I spit.
Faster than I can blink, Father rushes up to me, slapping me hard across the face. I feel something drip down my cheek.
"Remember who you are talking to, boy."
He looks at me coldly, flexing his half-transformed body.
Thick plates cover his muscled arm and black horns overtake his head. His blood red eyes burn.
I glare at him and stand up gruffly.

I leap out of bed, scratching my face.
I go into the bathroom, looking in the mirror.
An angry red mark is present where Father hit me. I scowl at it, splashing it with cold water.
The mark slowly fades away as the water hits it. I glower at myself in the mirror and hurry out the bathroom.
I walk to the table, sitting in front a bowl of Froot Loops.
I spin my spoon around as Dimitrio pecks at his on the window sill.
Pops walks in from the kitchen, drinking from a bottle. I squint at the label. Red wine.
He plops down at the table. "Good morning son."
"Morning Pops."
We sit quietly for a moment.
"Pops?"
"Yes?"
"What language do you normally speak in?"
"You mean English?"
I nod. "Yeah, that."
He scratches his chin, taking another sip from his bottle.
Dimitrio hops onto the table, tapping his claw.
He bobs his head in Pops' direction. "Do you think he can teach us?"
I nod. "He can."
Pops sets his bottle down. "What am I teaching you?"
"English."
"You don't know English, son?"
I shake my head.
"How about this, you go to the Walmart and go get some of those learning-to-write books. And I'll teach you. Ok with you, son?"
I nod. "Yes. That's fine."
Pops gets up and hobbles over to the counter. He pulls out some paper from a cookie jar, counting under his breath.
He hands me a wad of paper.
"That should cover it."
I jump up. "Ok, thank you. I'll be back in a bit."
Pops nods, falling back into his chair.
"See ya."
Dimitrio hops onto my shoulder as I walk out.
"See ya."