Just One Bite

Chapter 5: James' POV

I ram the front door open with my shoulder, my forearms burning under the six shopping bags that I'm hanging onto like my life depended on it, and stagger straight into the kitchen. I can't help to curse quietly to myself when I open one cupboard after another, only to reveal empty spaces. But there were fresh packs of beer, ciders, two new bottles of Jack Daniels and Smirnoff vodka just thrown lazily onto the kitchen table.

Well, that's the last time I give my father money, I confirm to myself, why am I even surprised?

I slowly start to unpack the shopping when I hear the front door swing open again, slamming loudly into the wall behind it; I think I can even hear more plaster fall off.

"James!"

Oh no.

I know that tone of voice. It means I'm in trouble and probably for no good reason. "I'm in the kitchen!" I call back, mentally bracing myself for whatever the man was about to throw at me, as I emptied the first shopping bag and threw the last of its contents into the fridge.

My father marches in, eyes wide with anger. He's sober for once; I can tell because he didn't bump his shoulder into the door as normal. "Where the hell have you been?" He demands, "It's almost 9 o'clock!"

My eyebrows raise to my forehead as I give him a stupid look, before gesturing to the five remaining shopping bags I have scattered on the island counter in front of me. "Where the hell do you think?"

"I've already been shopping!" My father spits.

"I'm sorry to break it to you, dad," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice as I grab the second carrier, "But human beings can't survive on that stuff that will be your liver's inevitable undoing." He just scowls at me but I ignore him and duck into the cupboard to grab the biscuit tin.

"You haven't mowed the lawn like I asked you to."

"Are you fucking stupid or something?" I ask, straightening up to give him a look of disbelief, "I've been in college! Why don't you do it? It's not like you've been working today."

"I don't know where you keep the lawn mower!"

"It's in the shed!" I shout, "Where we've always kept it for the past seventeen years!" My father's scowl is just getting deeper by the second. I throw the third carrier bag onto the floor aggressively, knowing there was only salad food inside. "And besides," I add sharply, "You're not really in the right to shout at me. Where the hell have you been? You just came through the front door!"

"I've been in town!" He yells back, "Going to the bank and paying the mortgage like a responsible adult!"

I halt in my tracks. Did he seriously just have the nerve to say that?

I stare at him with my jaws clenched together, holding in the anger that I desperately wanted to throw right in his face, preferably in the form of the kitchen sink. But instead I raise my hands and clap. He stares at me like I've gone mad. But I clap. Slowly and sarcastically.

"Congratulations, dad," I say coldly, "You finally managed to fine the note that I stuck on the fridge three days ago."

I see his eyes glance towards the fridge where, sure enough, a piece of ripped lined paper was taped to the door, my handwriting scrawled in thick black letters:

Remember to go to the bank on Saturday. Mortgage is due.

"College finishes at quarter past four," my father states plainly and I almost congratulate him for even knowing that, "It doesn't take five fucking hours to buy some food!"