My Favourite Part

46: not a little girl

WARNING – there's a fair bit of profanity in this chapter (which I think, given the circumstances, makes sense lol. Just a quick forewarning!)

Focused and feral in his attack, Dad doesn't say another real word as he throttles Eric into stillness, and watches his gasping face go scarlet. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, but I can't even hear myself. This doesn't feel like reality.

It feels like watching a scene from a movie. Each tough, tight shake of the man on the floor's neck feels false; the deep red complexion of his skin doesn't seem real. But it is. And 'the man on the floor' isn't an actor, who can just get up and wipe his face when someone yells "cut!" It's Eric. And if someone doesn't stop Dad soon, he won't be able to get up.

"Dad, fucking s- just stop it!" I scream for what feels like the millionth time. My voice is hoarse with tears and terror, and I feel the roughness in my throat every time I shout, but the heavy horror in my stomach glues me to my spot. The screaming and crying and yelling-so-hard-my-throat-might-tear are all I can do.

Dad throws Eric down, hard, against the carpet, and I shriek when his limp body thuds.

"Don't start Evangeline, don't you fucking start!" Dad barks, sweaty faced as he jabs a finger at me. "You brought this bastard into my pub? Into my house!" His vicious stare drops to Eric on the ground.

"You think you can take advantage of my daughter under my own fucking roof!"

His voice grows louder and louder, until its booming like thunder, and before I can cry out again, his balled fist smashes, and stained with a deep red matching the trail of blood trickling from Eric's lip. Horrified, my hands snap to my mouth and I scan a shocked and frantic eye around the room. 

Walt and Jerome are stood by the door like hitmen, watching Dad beat the crap out of Eric, with folded arms and dark faces. When Walt and I catch eyes, I clamber off of the bed, almost tripping on the sheets as I run to him to plead.

"Walt," I croak as I beg, "do something! Please!" 

He's averted his gaze as quickly as it landed, and now he won't even look at me. His expression is stony as he watches, his jaw clenched with a rage of his own.

"He's getting what he deserves, Goldilocks," Jerome says, and if his countenance is usually cold, then tonight it's arctic. The venom drips from his words even after he's said them. "He's scum."

"You shouldn't have lied to us, Angie," Walt says. He still won't look at me, but the tightness of his jaw loosens, with the hint of a tremble in his voice.

"I know," I sob, "I know, and I'm sorry, but please, Walt. Please!"

Dad's grabbed Eric by the throat again and when he throws him against the dresser, the little box room shakes, and Eric doesn't open his eyes. That doesn't stop Dad. He balls his fist again, and raises it for another blow to Eric's defeated frame.

"Walt, please," I scream, a thud sounding when I jump like a howling, petulant child, "Walt, he'll kill him!"

Walt stares on sternly for a moment more, but he takes one quick look at my puffy, bawling face, and rubs his nose with a fast, gruff hand and starts to stride over to Eric.

"'Rome," he barks at his brother, nodding in Dad's direction, "grab him."

Jerome's burly frame dwarfs Dad as he yanks him away from my Eric, clipping his arms behind him to restrain him.

"Get off me! Get the fuck off!"

Walt's got Eric propped against the wall, and thank God, his eyes are opening. I rush over to touch him, hold him, anything, but Walt stands between us, and throws out a brawny arm that traps me before I can. He finally looks me in the eye.