A river of tears cascaded down my red cheeks as I struggled to hold back the sobs. I hugged myself tightly as if my body would evaporate in mere seconds.
"...And 2 times 5 makes ten. And 2 times 6 makes 12. And 2 times 7 makes..." I recited.
Talking while holding in sobs was terribly difficult but I couldn't make the mistake of slipping up cause I knew he was listening. He's always listening. I make the mistake of vocalizing my pain once before and I'll never forget my punishment.
No stop thinking about it, just keep talking. You can't afford to slip up. You can never slip up.
"...And 2 times 11 makes 22. And 2 times 12 makes 24. Again. 2 times 1 makes..."
This is what? Like the 5th time I've repeated this.
My stomach growls at me but I keep going.
Mother will be home soon, it should be around 7 by now. When she comes I'll get food and she'll tend to my wounds. Leaving now will be too risky, he must still be mad.
"...And 2 times 4 makes 8 and 2 times-"
I was interrupted by the door being slammed open.
"I assume you're ready to write the practise test again? And you better not get any wrong this time less you're hankering for another round."
My eyes fell to the belt in his fist then returned to meet his cold, unfeeling stare.
"Yes father, I won't disappoint you."
YOU ARE READING
The Best Dream
General FictionSome are greeted by gentle fairies, valiant heroes or even attractive celebrities in their sleep but for Ann Peters dreams are just nightmares of the past coming back to haunt her. Constant reminders of everything wrong with her, her failures and wh...
