Everything Feels Wrong

more of this fucking table

I walked into the living room to see him sitting at the table, with a cup of coffee in his hands, and another sitting a couple inches away from him. He looked at me and smiled, his eyes full of fake sweetness and malice, combined like the chocolate and vanilla in swirly soft serve ice cream. My stomach dropped when I saw his face, and pieces of the previous night came rushing back. I remember praying in my head that he wouldn't speak. I remember the biggest sense of fear I'd ever felt. But God forbid, if my luck wasn't already bad enough, he spoke.

"Good morning, hon." A smile spread across his lips, showing straight white teeth. I remember when he had braces, and he always had purple bands on them.

"Hi." Why'd he call me that? It felt wrong. Being near him felt wrong.

"I made you coffee. It's black, but I have cream and sugar."

Why was he offering me things? Why was he being nice? Didn't he know what he did?

"Last night was fun, wasn't it?" he asked, chuckling.

No. No, it wasn't. I felt sick, my face felt hot, and I wanted to cry. I barely remembered what happened, but what I did remember, wasn't fun.

I didn't say anything to him, and I turned around to pull my shoes onto my feet. I shoved my clothes into my bag, grabbed my phone, some bus fare, and I stood, my back facing him. He was staring at me, I could feel it.

"What's wrong, babe?"

I tightened my grip on my backpack straps, and spoke through clenched teeth.

"Don't call me that."

He asked where I was going, why I had to leave, and I reminded him that unlike him, I still had to go to school, I wasn't a dropout.

"But you can't leave, we're not done. I'm not done."

Those are the last words I ever heard him say.