Spillage || TW {18+}

♦ 06 ♦

picture; Rylie Lukko

song; "It's Not Me, It's You" by Skillet (I love this song soooo much. Honestly, really used to feel it as a teenager.)

author's note; It took way too long to upload this and it's been written and edited for a while. Whoops! I got chapter 7 about half-way done and that should be uploaded a lot quicker. Anyway, you get a glimpse of Rylie's relationship with Daddy Dearest in this chapter and another delightful dose of my favorite character.

Comment + Vote, enjoy!

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Evidence of sleep pressed through my voice when I answered the phone. The rasp of the "Hello?" grated against my skin, and I let my eyes close, annoyed that some idiot called at this time.

"Rylie." His voice was unmistakable, showered me with shards of imaginary agony as it coated over me. Old wounds tore open and sleep was chased away, replaced by the remembrance of the black storm brewing in my chest. "Please don't hang up."

"Why should I listen to anything you have to say?" The words were laced with ice, with the pent up and simmering anger I'd squelched over time. It was rising again to a broil, unable to be contained.

"I am trying to fix things, Rylie. I get that you're angry, but I love you, and I'm not ever going to stop trying to make this up to you."

"Trying to fix what exactly? There is absolutely nothing you could do to erase the scars or the memories. You could've been there for me when I was right in front of you. It took me getting taken away for you to actually try to fix things?

"I don't want you to try to apologize or fix anything. I don't want to hear from you. I don't want to see you. I want you to be erased from my life like you were never here to begin with. It should be pretty easy, considering you're good at making yourself scarce."

I hung up before he could respond, turned my phone on silent and threw it across the room. My fingers dug angrily into my hair and I breathed out again and again, trying to focus on the pound of my heartbeat.

I felt the oppression fuel me, scare me. An icy pinprick of a memory seared across my mind, shoving me forth into the past.

The clap of my bare feet against the hardwood floors rebounded through the air, seemingly loud in the silence. I trailed the tips of my fingers against the wall to navigate through the pre-dawn dark. A loud crash cut through me, causing me to jump at the sudden noise.

It sounded so aggressive in the quiet that it made trembles wave through me from the leftover fear of the raucous. Another crash followed the first, and again followed the second—then the third. I pressed my flat palms to my ears, as if to ease away the hurt of the commotion.

I twisted into my father's office where the unending sounds of smashing glass and things being thrown emanated from. When I pushed the door open, I saw him in all his drunken glory angrily throw a stack of papers around the room before knocking back a bottle filled with brown liquor. "Can you be anymore inconsiderate?"

He twirled toward me, confusion fading to annoyance. "You don't know how I feel right now, stupid. Leave me alone."

"I don't know how you feel?" I pressed my fist to my chest, concurrently scowling at him. "Did you find her, lying there lifeless and covered in her blood? No, all you did was push her to do what she did."

"I didn't slit her wrists!" He exclaimed, shaking the whiskey bottle as he dramatically gestured while he spoke. I scoffed and crossed, uncrossed and re-crossed my arms.