Bruised But Not Broken

Chapter 1

I hear a car door slam shut. I shove my books in my backpack and walk downstairs. He's just walking up to the door. As he fumbles with his keys, I listen to how much trouble he's having. "Great," I say under my breath. If he's having this much trouble with his keys, it means he's drunk. I pray he's not in a drunken rage.

He walks in the door, tripping over his own two feet while he makes his way over to me.

"Windsor Anne Adams!"

He's angry. And I'm in his path of rage.

"Jesus Windsor! What do you not understand about clean the house! I bet you didn't cook dinner yet!" he screams and curses at me. "Why is nothing done around here?"

I look at him. I already know what his next question will be. He hates when I don't come directly home after school. Since its Friday, I knew he would be at the local bar. I want to get this over with as quick as possible. I decide to answer his unasked question.

"I went to the Library." I say calmly, with a quivering voice. I wish my fear didn't show.

He glares at me through raging eyes. I have no idea what he's going to do next. He settles for throwing me to the ground. Not as bad as I thought it would be.

"Cook, clean and do your homework before I get out of the shower!" he calls after me. At least he takes long showers.

I get to work. Dusting, sweeping, folding laundry. I then gather the limited cans of food I can find, and heat them up to make an unappetizing meal of over-cooked chicken and freezer-burned vegetables. I set the table just as my dad walks back downstairs.

"The house looks better."

"Thanks."

"Food looks okay."

"Thanks."

"Is your homework done?"

"Most of it," I can't believe I just admitted that my homework wasn't done. "Just math left." I add quickly, maybe even too quickly.

He studies me. For a second, I think he's going to snap. Instead he just sits down at the table. I poor him some wine before I sit down across from him.

"Wind," my dad says softly, at least he called me "Wind" instead of "Windsor", that means he's calmed down. "Do you miss your mother?" he asks.

My mother. The touchiest subject in the house. The one person that could ever calm him down. The topic that could make my dad's day, or make him ten times more violent than when he's drunk.

"Yes." I say flatly.

"What is your favorite memory?"

"Can't pick."

"Least favorite?"

Ugh this is the moment of truth.

"Seeing her in the hospital."

He is expressionless. He looks away. For a moment, it looks as if he might cry.

All he does is pick up his fork and begin to eat. So I do too. We eat in silence for a long time. I'm starving, but I don't eat much. Finally, I clear the table.

"Windsor?"

"Yeah?"

"What is today?"

"Friday."

"No, the date."

"Thirteenth."

I freeze. The day of death and terror. What could he possibly have planned?