A Shift in Society

4| Bad Idea #746

I know given my past with my dad that I probably should have stayed with my mom, but alas, did I listen to that inner voice in my head?

Hell no. 

I packed up my bag, drove 50 miles to Daddy Dearest's house, and endured another awkward situation called: Step-mom and step-brother vs. Stranger-who-is-actually-not-a-stranger. Said stranger being me. 

As I sit down in Dad's stiff, queen-sized guest bed I can't help but place a hand against my right cheek.

Yup, still burning hot. Oh God, why did I think it was okay for me to come here?

I sit down my bag at the end of the bed, still too stunned from the events that took place just moments ago. My mind replays the scene over and over again as if I'm watching a horror movie stuck on rewind . . .

I slowly drove into the Finch estate owned by my father, Randolph Finch, and his wife, Janet Finch. Lost in pre-panic thought, I made sure to stop myself from gazing at the beautiful building in front of me and instead took notice of an animal lazily protecting the grand fortress.

 Outside, in the short green grass, laid a loyal Sheltie dog with a black collar that displayed the name Champion. The Sheltie, although was laying down, stood around sixteen inches in height. Its long coat was harsh and straight with a dense undercoat. Champion's fur was a mixture of black, blue merle, and sable with white markings. Its long wedge-shaped head rested comfortably on its white paws. The Sheltie, upon my arrival, had perked up its small, three-quarter erect ears. Champion's deep-chested, level-backed torso gave an appearance of a rough-coated Collie in miniature.

Huh, so he likes dogs now. What a family man.

As I parked my navy blue Chevy Impala, I could feel it slowing down to a halt. The worn tires ground against the 3" asphalt and I slightly jerked forward in the driver's seat. The dirty windows rolled up when I pressed the window button until they were fully closed. I turned the key in the ignition to the left, the vehicle's hum of life silenced abruptly. 

This is it. No running away. Be cool, Thea. Be cool. It's only your dad's house. His family's house. 

Oh, God.

I stepped out of the Impala like a mouse timidly emerging from its protective lair. Each step felt like an agonizing year passing, every inhale of air a century before the next one. I slightly jumped when the door had shut a tad too aggressive. With furrowed brows, I looked back at the dented door, cursing it for causing my anxious heartbeat to spike like a kid who downed an entire case of Red Bull.

Be cool, Thea. Be cool. 

I reluctantly forced myself to look forward. 

Big mistake. 

My eyes feasted upon the most intimidating house I've ever laid eyes upon. A Tudor-styled house stood proudly on my father's estate. I gazed at its steeply pitched gable roof and playful elaborate masonry chimneys. A portion of the house jutted out and was topped with a cross-gabled roof, also with a steep pitch. Brick, stone, and stucco wall cladding played a significant role in the Tudor-styled home. Its embellished board and batten doorways with strap hinges, groupings of dormer windows, and decorative half-timbering displayed a grand finish to the magnificent home. The entire house conveyed a sense of permanence.

Holy shit. When did the cheating bastard get so loaded?

Dumbfounded, I stood next to my Impala, a hand laid on the vehicle's frame for support. With a deep inhale, and a forceful exhale, I finally continued my way towards the squatty doorways that contained the source of my anxiety-ridden self.