Coming Home Late

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I shot up in bed once I heard the heavy front door slam. I crept along the wooden floor to the bedroom door. Once I opened it I was met with a face full of anger, Dally.

My husband of four years pushed his way into the room slightly swaying as he walked.
"What the hell Dally, we have a daughter can't you tell when you come home drunk it terrifies her?" I whisper-yelled, hopefully not waking our sleeping four year old. "Anne will be fine. She needs to know how the world works."
Dally stood as he said it. Walking over to me. He slammed his hand onto the wall, about five inches away from my face.
"Dally, please. Dont do this." I whispered over and over again.
"This is my house. I can do whatever I want here. The nerve that you have to tell me not to come home late is crazy!" He screamed in my face, clearly wanting to get his point across.

My eyes blurred; hot tears streaming down my cheeks. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her,  Anne, holding onto her stuffed, pink rabbit. Her mouth was open and her soft, small voice spoke, "daddy, please dont hurt mommy. You love her."

Dally rushed over to her, picking her up, and holding her to his broad chest."Don't be scared baby, daddy's got you. I'm not gonna hurt you and neither is anyone else." He said.
She clung onto his neck; hugging him as hard as she could.
He carried her back to her room spending about thirty minutes trying to get her to sleep.

When he walked back into the room he took his shirt off, tossing it across the room. He changed his pants from his jeans to soft, gray sweatpants.
I rolled to the very edge of the bed; not wanting to be around him anymore, but to scared to tell him to sleep on the couch.
He fell on the bed and leaned in close to me; putting his hand on my hip. After awhile his breathing was steady, and I knew he had fallen asleep.

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