Matching Leather Jackets

Start.

        I feel my jaw drop. How the hell? Isn't there supposed to be some kind of consent of the family to allow a family member back into a household? Some kind of consent?

        It's like time stops for a long time, enough so that I can visually take in and analyse the entire scene before me.

        There's Ray, looking unharmed and unbruised on my father's legs. She's smiling broadly, a blue lollipop in hand and violet stains on her mouth from the candy she holds. She looks happy.

        There's Dell, her knees bouncing up and down in some sort of anticipation. The wine bottle's dark contents swoop back and forth inside the glass as she moves. Her face looks like a mix of relief and hesitation.

        The room looks in tact, no fighting or anything seems to have occurred.

        It's oddly normal looking, almost like a real family.

        Almost.

        Everyone turns their heads to look at who had entered the door.

        I have my eyes dead set on Ray and my Dad. He better not hurt her. Before he left, he would try to strike her, but of course, I jumped in the line of fire so she wouldn't be in pain... she doesn't deserve pain, and I'm damn sure not going to have her get hurt now, either.

        "Pen!" Ray squeals, "Daddy's home, he's home and he got me a present and some candy. Right Daddy?" I watch as Ray's face grows brighter and becomes more fixated on her candy.

        My father smiles at her. Smiles. "Yeah, Ray." My father looks up at me, a curious, cautious expression on his face. "Can I speak with you in the kitchen for a moment, Penelope?"

        He used my name. My first name, not girl, not bitch, not you. It truly catches me off guard, I almost feel hopeful. Almost.

        Speak with me for a moment, huh? For what? So he can punch me in my arm again, make me fear him more?

        I feel myself start feeling vulnerable again. I won't cry, I don't want him to see my tears, I used to think.

        That's really not the case here, I've been holding it in too long. I might not need to cry, but if I do, I'll retreat to my room. That's what I used to do when I didn't cry, but I can definately still do it now.

        "It's important," he says quietly. I can no longer see the red in his face that he used to have when he wanted to talk. He looks rational, composed, and a bit anxious.

        I say nothing. I don't even nod. I just walk straight to the kitchen. I'm sure he gets the clue because in a matter of seconds, I hear his heavy footsteps behind me as I reach the kitchen island.

        "How has everything been since I was gone?" my father asks.

        With no thinking absolutely necessary, I blurt out, "Better."

        His face falls a bit when I look up at him, but I feel no sympathy. "I mean– is there anything I've missed that's important?"

        "You know what, should you really have to ask that question? If you hadn't gone crazy after mom p-" I stop myself. Was he really in control of his actions after mom died? I'll admit, I lost it a bit when she left.

        I suddenly find myself in a trance of memories, good and bad, passing before my eyes, some going faster than they came.

        There's one memory in particular that takes away all of my consciousness, my breath, and my composure.