Dead Beat (❌)

Chapter Thirteen

Anneliese

'Mom is going to beat your ass when she finds out how big of a bitch you've been!'

The sound of my brother's words relentlessly scratch at my mind, playing themselves over and over in the silence of the unfamiliar bathroom.

Curled up with my back pressed against the sink, I have my face buried in my knees as I fight the urge to scream. It's like a kitten has found its way inside my chest and has decided to let out its frustrations on whatever it can reach.

The muffled voices of my brothers and father eventually fall to nothing, leaving even more silence to force its way in. I don't know who left and I can't say that I really care, either.

A soft dripping from the sink facet is my only friend right now, its soft tinking against the drain rhythmic and strangely soothing. I don't know what it's like to have a mental breakdown, but I think I'm on the verge of one.

My chest hurts, I wanna break shit, and I want to just wrench that door open and make others feel what I feel.

Mom's going to beat my ass? I hope she would.

At least she'd be here.

My arms tighten around my legs and I dig my face so hard against my knees that the skin on my face protests.

I can't handle this right now.
I don't want to handle this right now.
I don't want to ever handle it.

Losing myself in silence and water droplets, I finally manage to shove all my emotions deep inside a closet, making sure to lock it up and throw away the key.

I can easily go insane in a motel bathroom and lose my shit, but I'd rather not. Not yet at least.

Carefully lifting my face, I blankly scan my surroundings to find myself in a small, typical motel bathroom. Clean and white. So very white.

The silence around me looms so heavily that I'm pretty sure that I'm left behind. Panic immediately bubbles within my chest, forcing me to my feet.

Before I can stop, I find myself in mid-turn of the door handle, inching the bathroom door open just enough to peer out.

The scene of my father with his face in his hands as he sits on the mattress strikes a cord within me, strangling any sound from leaving my lips.

I'm sure he knows I'm there, the door wasn't very quiet, but he doesn't move. Frozen myself, I simply hug the door, one hand gripping the handle as I press into the opening just watching him.

I feel...kind of horrible.

Dad looks so defeated as he sits there with elbows on his knees and his head tilted downwards. The atmosphere of the room went from a somewhat soothing silence to now being a thick and uncomfortable awkwardness.

Should I go to him?
Say something?
Stay quiet and forgotten?

My initial feeling tells me that he doesn't deserve shit, but as I stand there practically staring at him, my stomach starts to churn and the kitten in my chest returns.

Unsure, I end up staying put, but the scene only gets more painful. Dad doesn't move, doesn't speak, I don't even think he's breathing at this point.