Breaker

Chapter 4: Black Fury

  Chapter 4:

I cautiously walk into the living room, taking extra care not to make any noise. I slip past the recliner where my father sits watching a baseball game, a glass of whiskey in his hand. I grasp the railing and place one foot on the first stair. It creaks under the slightest pressure, calling attention to my presence. Shit, I think to myself, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Daniella! Where in the hell have you been?!" my father snaps, not looking away from the television.

"I was at Jenna's house," I mumble.

"Don't mumble, you idiot! Speak out loud so that people can hear you! I swear, you have got to be the most ungrateful brat I've ever seen," he snarls, finally getting up from his chair. "And another thing, I don't believe I gave you permission to go over to Jenna's house, and you know when you go out you need to be home by six o'clock sharp. Now get your ass into that kitchen and get me another glass of whiskey." I glare at the floor and don't move. "Are you deaf or just plain stupid? GO GET ME ANOTHER DRINK!" he shouts.

"I don't think you need anymore alcohol, Dad," I brave, looking at his bright red face. I can see the veins on his forehead beating, the tendons on his neck bulging in rage.

"You little bitch," he hisses, lunging towards me. I stand stock still as his fist connects with my cheek. The force of the blow sends me to the floor where my father proceeds to wrap his sweaty hands around my neck, squeezing the breath out of me. I look into his hate filled eyes as I futilely try to loosen his choke hold on my throat. "How dare you back talk me! Your own father! You deserve to die right here, you disgusting, ungrateful slut!" I would gag at the stench of his breath wafting into my nostrils, but I couldn't even breath at the moment. I know he doesn't really mean the things he says. It's just the alcohol talking. I can feel the black start to consume me, pulling me into unconsciousness. Before everything fades into darkness, I manage to choke out a few words.

"Love you, too, Dad," I tell him, watching the anger drain from his face completely, replaced by shock. I can't help but to relish in the fact that I made that happen. I finally slip into oblivion, away from the pain of new bruises. Well, damn, I think suddenly. I'm gonna have a hard time covering these up. I wake a few hours later in the same spot, stiff and aching. I tenderly touch my cheek and hiss. It's definitely bruised, I think sourly. My head pounds and blood throbs behind the bruises. I sit up slowly, not wanting to get light headed.

"What are you doing on the floor?" I hear behind me. I turn my body around to see my brother, Gavin, looking down at me with a question on his face. He glances at my neck and his eyes go blank. I look down at my hands, not wanting to see the pity that would soon show in his eyes.

"Well, if I were you, I'd get up and clean myself up because I heard Mom talking on the phone to Aunt Alexis. They were discussing dinner ideas," he tells me, holding out his hand. I grab it and hoist myself up.

"Well that's just perfect, isn't it?" I say sarcastically, frowning in the general direction of the kitchen, knowing my mother is probably in there now, talking to my aunt. I sigh heavily and grab the banister. "Tell Mom I'm just finishing homework or something," I tell him, bounding up the stairs. I get to the top and gasp in pain. My hands go to my aching knee. I pull up the leg of my jeans to reveal a new, dark bruise blooming to cover my kneecap. Great, I think, carefully pulling the denim back down. Just another bruise to hide.My mind races as I try to think of different options on hiding the mottled spots, especially the ones ringing my neck. Makeup wouldn't hide that one. I walk down the hall and into my bedroom, not turning on the light. I kick off my shoes and pull my shirt over my head. I wince as it presses on my face. I soon discard my jeans as well, throwing them, along with my shirt, into my hamper. Grabbing one of my giant sweatshirts, I tug it over my head, trying to keep it from touching my injured cheek too much. I also slip into a pair of bright, neon green athletic shorts. I crawl into my bed and grab my fuzzy purple phone. I, of course, am the only one with a house phone. The other members of my family don't see them as necessary, seeing as though we all have a cell phone. I dial Philips number and wait for him to pick up. He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, D, I was just about to call you! So tell me, do you want me to come over, or do you want me to come get you?" I smile at his enthusiasm.

"Well, I would say come over here, but my dad's.....well.....being a little difficult," I tell him hesitantly, hoping to hide the acing in my tone. My head sinks into my arm, and I cradle the phone against me.

"So I'll come get you, okay? We can go to that new coffee shop that opened not too long ago," he says. I can hear a door shut and a car engine starting in the background. "I'll be there in a few, below your window." I laugh, say I'll be waiting, and hang up the phone. I lay still for a few moments and realize I need to cover the new bruises on my face and neck. I quickly jump up and, careful of my cheek and neck, throw off the sweater and grab a closely fitted black turtleneck. I pull it over my head and dash over to the vanity to put makeup over the plum colored mark that marred my face. I frown at my reflection. It extended from my temple to my nose, and was an ugly shade of purple and black. I shake my head and expertly mask it with special cover up and a brush of powder. I run a brush through my hair and pull off the running shorts for my jeans. I grab a pair of running shoes and open my window. I look down and see Philip moving stealthily across the expanse of the lawn.

"Up here!" I breath, waving my hand wildly. He see's me and a bright grin stretches across his face. My heart stutters at the joy I find in that simple expression. No one could make me feel any better in a moment like this.

"I'll wait for you down in my car. It's parked just around the corner," he whispers back. I give him a wink and shut the window and curtains. I run out of my room and down the stairs, out the front door and go around to the side of the house, right into his waiting arms.

"I thought you were going to wait in the car," I mock, beaming up at him.

"I was going to, but I didn't want you to have to walk that far all alone," he reasons. So, hand in hand, we walk through the dark and around the corner. He opens the door for me, ushering me into the smooth, perfectly worn out leather interior of his old 1952 Dodge Series B-3-B pickup, fully restored and painted a smoky charcoal grey. I hop in and he shuts the door. Going around to the other side, he jumps in and starts the engine. He takes my hand and pulls away from the curb, driving down the road without his headlights. We drive in comfortable silence as we head to his house, never looking back. I almost did, but held myself back. I could feel my fathers cold, furious stare on the retreating vehicle. I could feel the flaming black fury that was to come.