Runaway: a Michael Clifford fan-fiction

Chapter 1

The anger radiates out of him and fills the whole room. He stomps angrily towards me, his feet pounding the ground. I instinctively shrink back, afraid as he towers over me. His face is faintly glowing red from anger. He leans in, almost touching my face. Then, he points an accusing finger towards me. Only then does he scream, "Karena Ann Petty!" As he does so, his spit shoots into my eyes. I close my eyes as spittle sprayed my face.

"W-what?" I stammer. I honestly didn't know what I had done did this time. It seems like when I don't know it's always much, much worse. Why is it that I'm always into trouble? Why not one of my brothers?

"Do not say "what" to me! I am your father, you should show a little respect! I respect you don't I?" he bellows in my face. But, he's not finished. No, he's never finished. He starts up again, "You know what you did!"

That's the problem. I've been thinking and thinking, and I really don't know what I did! So, I speak the truth. "N-no. I don't really know..."

His hand lashes out, and that's all I have time to see before I crumple to the ground. I get tunnel vision from the pain of my head hitting the cold tile floor. It feels like my head was a baseball, and his hand was the bat. He swings, and sends the ball over the fence. He must be an outstanding athlete, considering he hits his target every time.

Now, I'm clutching the side of my burning face, hoping for this pain to end. No, this was not the worst it could have been. I've felt a lot worst. Although, this was only the first hit in this argument. There were plenty more to come.

Finally, my vision slowly comes back to me. It's still a little splotchy, but bearable. I sit up, still clutching my face. My father is nowhere in site. Where did he go?

And then, I hear a loud grunting noise behind me. I turn back to see him lobbing a lawn chair towards my head. Everything seems to move in super sonic speed.

This was not like it happens in the movies. Everything slows down, not speeds up!

The chair is hurtling towards my face. Coming closer with every millisecond. I can already feel the cool metal slapping against my nose. I can already hear the crunch sound my nose will make when the impact of the blow comes. I can already taste the blood oozing down my misshapen nose and into my parched mouth. As I think these things, something unexpected happens.

Just as the chair grazes my nose, I lean back with surprising grace, allowing the chair to swoosh past my head. My father's look of satisfaction turns to disgust.

Soon after, the realisation hits. What have I done? Now, I'm going to get a little more than a broken nose. Now, I am as good as dead to him.

What in the world do I do? Sit here and take it? I mean, it felt amazing to defy my father, this so called "man of the house." A true man would never hit a women, or a child. Let alone his own daughter!

"If your mother knew..." he begins, only to trail off.

"Yeah, if my mother knew," I chime in, "you wouldn't be living here anymore. She would throw you to the curb. If only she knew how you were living up to our last name! You'd be gone!" I snap for a dramatic effect, "Just. Like.That."

He didn't reply at first. We sat there, looking at each other in utter silence. After a few seconds, he trudges towards me. Then, he carelessly picks me up by the neck, and slams me into the wall behind him. He pins me by the neck with one hand, while reaching for a wrench with the other. He fumbles with the wrench, and it tumbles to the ground. He swears under his breath, then reaches for the next nearest tool. He comes up with a rust-covered bent crowbar. He raises the tool above his head, ready to strike. Yet, he stops, hand in the air, not moving a muscle.