I'll Sing You One Last Song and then I'm Gone (Tokio Hotel Fan-Fic)

Chapter 2

This story is written by @xAnDeinerSeitex She wrote this story on a website called TokioHotelFiction.com. I was able to locate her and found out she had a wattpad account. She has given me permission to post it on here. @xAnDienerSeitex aslo has a new updated version of the story, as seeing this one is a few years old. If you like to read that one click the external link on the side. And I would like to say I have no rights to this story and I am NOT the writer. I would also like to thank @xAnDeinerSeitex for writing this great story and letting me post it on my account.

“Ashley Rebecca Elizabeth Dawson, what the hell do you call this bullshit?” My father screamed in my face, holding my progress report in one hand, the torn-up envelope in the other. Mum sat at the dining room table, still exhausted from earlier, when I first left the house, trying not to show it. As usual, once my father was finished with her, Mum managed to get back up and continue on with life. I envied her strength. She could have the weight of the world shove her literally down onto the floor, and she would always get back up.

“What do you mean, Dad?”

Two place settings were messy from use, yet one sat perfectly untouched, food still on the plates. I’d missed supper. Had he not held the paper from my school clenched tightly in his fist, I would have assumed that my dinner was what he was angry about. “A D is what you use to begin your surname, not your English grade!”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I told him, looking away from him, trying to ignore the little droplets of spittle on my face when he spoke as I forced myself into using the d-word when addressing him. He was anything but my dad. A dad is someone who loves his daughter, who does things for her, who hugs her, who buys her things, who goes out of his way to make sure she’s happy. Roger Dawson was nowhere close to being a dad. He was nothing. He was nothing to the world, and moreover, nothing to me.

I looked to the miniscule amount of space between my scruffy classic Converse and his work loafers. To the small stack of mail strewn about on the floor, from which I assume my report was torn. To the platter of pasta with a white sauce of sorts sitting at room temperature on the table. Anywhere to avoid the blue I’m sure had once been vibrant, but had since lost their sheen and had been dimmed down so that the iris was dull and murky.

In a quick flash of rage, he pressed his hands into my shoulders and shoved me backwards, and had it not been for the wall present between the kitchen and living room, I’d have fallen straight on my behind. That would have done wonders for my dignity, not that I had any when it came to my father.

“Roger!” Mum exclaimed, trying to stand, but feeling the exhaustion ignite inside her, sending her straight back down into her chair. There’s only so much pain the human body can withstand.

But, Roger never took his eyes off of me. “Stay the hell out of this, Michelle. This is between me and her,” he screamed, the wretched smell of too much whiskey billowing in the air between us, the source being his breath.

“I… I…” Mum stuttered to herself for a lingering moment, and then heaved out a heavy sigh, too overworked to even formulate words.

I’d be concerned, if my own ass weren’t on the line.

Suddenly, my father’s tone calmed down a considerable bit, which, I knew from experience, was never good. “What the fuck do you mean for this to be, Ashley?” I looked him in the eyes with a deer-in-headlights look, now sucked in and unable to look away, but retaining my thought process. I used it to mull over my next choice of words, combating the risk, some sort of beating, and the reward, personal satisfaction. But just as I was about to say them, I was cut off. By a loud noise, by a face in mine, by a screeching voice, by a geyser of spit. “What the fuck do you mean for this to be, Ashley!?”