Enjoy the Silence

Enjoy the Freedom

"Girl!" a terrible voice shouted in the middle of the night "Get out here!"

I gasped as the voice woke me up from an uncomfortable sleep. When my father screamed like that, I knew he was in a horrible mood. I didn’t want to go out there and face him when I knew I’d be coming back with bruises but it wasn’t worth ignoring him when I knew I’d get double the pain. Whimpering, I grabbed a baggy plaid shirt I bought from good will and used it like a jacket. My hand pushed the thin door of my bedroom and I walked out.

Quivering, I neared the small space we called a family room, not wanting to see him lingering by the sofa. What could I have done this time that evoked his anger? My mind raced to think of answers as I retraced my steps. I made dinner like he asked (redid the meal when he said he didn't like it), cleaned the rooms to the best of my ability, and ran quickly to my room after I was done. This was practically a ritual by now considering the amount of times I'd done it.

"Girl!" he shouted again and I rushed. Raising his irritation levels meant more pain for me. I couldn't have a repeat of what happened last week when he threw shards of a broken beer bottle at my direction when I didnt get him his food on time. The very thought of that happening again gave my legs more reason and adrenaline to get me to our tiny, worn out living room.

When I came in, what I saw didn’t completely meet my expectations. Dad was out in his usual stained undershirt with a beer bottle in his hand but this time he wasn’t awkwardly sprawled over the couch like I expected. He was sitting up straight, as if his undershirt was a formal suit and his alcohol stench was fine cologne. Someone else sat in the other end of the couch and I couldn’t make out their face under the shadows of the room.

"Mr. Caplin," said my father nervously "this is my daughter."

I stared at the man without a face currently sitting on our dingy couch. This was the infamous Mr. Caplin? The one my father had very very strong language for?

"How old is she," Caplin murmured and I found to my surprise that I liked his voice. It was smooth and husky, not what I expected from a man in his late forties. He didn’t sound anywhere near forty.

"She’s nineteen." My father said almost equally as quietly "She’s all I have left."

I fought off the urge to scoff in front of my father. He made it seem as if I was the last precious thing he had left in his life. Oh Caplin I thought bitterly I wish you knew the truth about him. He’s trying to turn a girl he considers a beggar into a heap of silver and gold.

"You’re a liar," the man growled at my father "You don’t care for this girl."

I could see the easily readable shock on my dad’s face. "N-no," he stuttered "I swear, she’s everything to me. My wife died at child birth and now she’s the only family I have left. I don’t have money for you anymore. All I can offer you is her."

I was stunned to hear him bring up my mother. Dad never felt like talking about her. If the word mom ever came out of my mouth I’d face the stinging pain of his leather belt. The ruse my father was pulling did not convince me nor did it convince Mr. Caplin. "If you care about her so much, why isn’t she defending your case?" he asked.

Dad met the man’s calculating gaze with a nervous look. I could practically hear him stumbling through his thoughts in an attempt to find a plausible answer. But then, in a split second, the nervousness disapeared into determination. Whatever he came up with must've been pure gold considering how quickly his scared expressions turned into a stubborn one "She has a medical condition which enables her from answering."