Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

35 | Smoke Under The Hood

MARTES
9:34 PM

Dahlia Gray

I learned very early on to never settle.

Not in the sense of a romantic partner, but the convenience of my home. My house is very explosive, built on the entrapment of landmines just waiting for one word to detonate. There's a pattern I found consistently through all my years of living with my father, and I've always been on edge when I land on the false paradise stage of the ride.

The first phase is the initiation: where my father would blow up—hurl insults at my mother and me, throw objects and punch walls—and then he transitions to the remorseful. He would give us jewelry, offer his condolences, and talk empty promises about how it would never happen again.

The last stage is paradise, where everything becomes relatively normal. My mother would cook dinner, my father would watch his games, and I would mind my own business in the comfort of my own room. We live in a moment of tranquility, but at the edge of our seats waiting for the pattern to repeat. A paradise disguised in an explosive home is as believable as a war created for peace.

The entire house shook as the front door slammed close, framing the arrival of my father's return.

I ignored the signs—as oblivious as I might sound—but I figured he had a bad day. Maybe a disagreement among his coworkers or unfair treatment to his crew. Nothing that pertains to me.

His heavy footsteps ascend against stairs, drummed with temper, before the knob to my bedroom door rattles, followed by a heavy bang. I froze in my seat, unable to comprehend the situation when what follows is another set of knocks, heavier and more vicious. "Open the fucking door, Dahlia!" My father roars from behind, slamming his hand against the wood so hard, I was sure it was going to break. "Or I will fucking kick it down!"

I scatter to my feet, my heart racing in adrenaline as I relist all the possible things I've done to provoke his anger. I've cleaned my room, I helped my mother in the kitchen, I stopped inciting arguments between us. There was absolute nothing I could think of.

I disengage the locks and allow him entrance. I took two steps back when the door swung open, slamming against the drywall so hard, I was sure it would leave a dent.

My father stood before me, his height towering over mine and he looks pristine in his brown UPS uniform. The logo branded at his breast, his name lingering under the tag. He didn't bother to take off his boots, and stepped inside.

My father's brown eyes scan the room, searching for something, before they met mine. A look of fury passes through his irises, his eyes sharp and his lips pull into a snarl. "Did you do it?" He asks, low and lethal. His tone laced with passiveness, but rage with a dormant fury—trying to keep himself calm for a civil conversation. My heart lunges. "Did you fucking do it?"

His words were like whiplash, but I couldn't find the answers he was searching for. My brows furrow together and I scratch the back of my head. I'm afraid any words that leave my mouth would trigger an attack. I whisper, my hands trembling behind my back. "Do what?"

And he cracks. "Goddammit, Dahlia, the papers!" He roars, slamming his fist against the door. I wince, subtly taking a step back to get away from his madness. "The fucking papers I asked you to do weeks ago!"

My eyes widen, and the recognition dawns on me. My adrenaline pours through my nerves, laced with an intermediate fear of what's going to happen next. Shoot, I forgot about that.

My lips parted, but I didn't have anything to say. His eyes met mine in a look of frustration but spots of hope linger behind his irises, hoping I would prove him wrong from his assumptions. The second they connect with mine, he realizes he was right all along and the rampage amplified through them like liquid blood.