The Boy Next door (j.b)

Chapter 2 ~ New Neighbours

*EDITED*

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~ Chapter 2 ~

School was finally over and I was slowly making my way home. What I liked about walking home, was that there was literally no one walking the same way as me. I lived on the 'bad' part of the city, or as some people like to call it, 'the poor side'. Plus, I got to use more time on my way home. The only reason I usually took the bus in the morning, was because I was a slow walker and would never make it to school in time if I walked every morning. I'd learned that from experience. I was literally always late throughout freshmen year.

I reached my neighbourhood twenty minutes later, and it looked like there was something happening outside my house. Thinking about my dad, my legs started speeding up, afraid of what it might be.

I hadn't told anyone anything.

The house on the other side of the street was occupied. That house had been empty for years. I still remembered Martha. She was our neighbour, and always made sweets for Kendall, Andrew and myself. We used to go there for fun, and she would let us into her backyard and let us play. Well, that was until she died from cancer. The house had been empty ever since.

Someone must have moved in.

There was a big trailer driving down the street, stopping in between our house and Martha's old house. I hurriedly got inside and took my shoes off before walking into the kitchen. There he was. Sitting there, eating the pizza slices I was close to eating this morning, but changed my mind about. I thanked the lord that I chose not to.

"Hey, how was school?" He asked, munching slowly on his pizza. This was how it usually went. The conversation strained; him not slightly interested and me answering with the exact same tone. We didn't usually talk, not like this anyways. If he would have been interested, things wouldn't be the way they were now, and had been the past two years. We didn't talk to each other because we wanted to; we did it simply because we had no other option.

"Fine. Could you maybe go buy some food? Uhm I thought I could bake some, uh, cookies for the new neighbours," I said nervously.

"Okay, don't sound too nervous. You're shaking," he chuckled, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

I frown. "I wouldn't be so god damn nervous if you actually were nice to your own daughter," I shot back, almost ironically.

"Watch your tone," he snapped, his index finger pointing at me warningly.

"You know," he took a pause and lean forward on the kitchen-table. His face stretched into one of his many creepy smiles, and for a second he reminded me more of the Joker than my father. "If your mother were here, she would probably slap your right across the face. You can be grateful that I was the one you ended up with."

We both knew that wasn't true. My mother wouldn't hurt as single fly, not even accidently. If anything, I would have been happier to be stuck with my mother than Ted. He was the exact replica of what child services would warn you about.

I didn't say anything. Just avoided the looks he gave me. "So, can you go buy it right now? I don't have the entire day," I said hurriedly, changing the subject.

"Let me eat first. Clean my room while I'm gone," he said casually, relaxing back in his seat again, taking a few bites from the pizza. I was normally the one who cooked and cleaned. Ever since mom died, everything had gone downhill. He started drinking, smoking, and yeah, sleeping around with women he didn't really care about. While I put my walls up, and started closing up way more than the younger me would've done. I didn't let people get close to me, and I never opened up about anything. I was my way of dealing with her being gone

My father used to sneak into my room at times when he was extremely drunk. Of course I knew what he was doing was wrong; a father should touch his daughter like that. But he told me I looked so much like her, that I reminded him of her and how she used to be.

Being the 16-year-old that I was, I usually let him. I always thought that the drinking thing was just for a small period of time. But then it got worse, and he would excuse his actions and apologize to me the next day.

But the apologies were too many, and the nights were long, and sometimes I would think that my father died along with my father even though he was physically there with me. Throughout the year I suddenly became the only reason he would come home at night, and the only reason he would keep working. The next day he would apologize; tell me he would buy me a gift to make up for what he made me do the night before.

But the gifts never made up for it. Never.

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