Being fragile was not an option. Crying was supposed to be a release. But for you, it was a sign of defenselessness. That mindset made you stop from your breakdown, moving the pillow away from you. You caught your breath as you heard someone unlock your bedroom door—a person you were not ready to see so soon.
"I never taught you to be weak, little one."
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You felt your face go pale as the person you dreaded to see stands in your apartment. Your mouth was wide open in a shocked expression, eyes following the frame of your father as he sat down beside you on the couch.
"Why are you crying?" He asked, shifting his face almost next to yours. His voice laced with fake concern, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.
His comforting touch before made you shiver in your seat, afraid of the reason he's here. You attempted to lie to the greatest deceiver you've met, "Crocodile tears, Ernest."
He trails the fingers of his right hand down your arm, resting his feet on the small table. His other hand played with the toothpick in his mouth, "I can catch you when you're lying," he clutched your hair in his fist, pulling it harshly. He continued, whispering in your ear, "So you better not fucking lie."
He has never been violent toward you, and you wondered why now. The pull made your head throb again, but you had to endure it. One of his important rules was to be emotionless. You had to be numb, especially in front of him.
He released you from his grasp, "What happened to calling me dad?" throwing air quotes at the word.
"I don't feel like calling you that, because you never filled that role," you snapped, scooting away from him slightly.
"I have never been so offended in my life," pressing his hand on to his chest as he mocked.
Frustrated, you stood up from the couch and headed to the counter. Clenching your palms at the edge. Ernest follows you, whistling as he walks behind you. He puts both of his hands behind him, murmuring, "Look at me, little one."
You quickly turned your back to face him. Pointing your finger in his face, "Don't call me that."
Ernest backs up, raising his hand in defense. His voice laced with sarcasm, laughing, "Easy there. Developing an attitude, huh?"
You disappeared into the kitchen. Dehydration being one reason your head still hurts. Before you could pour yourself a glass of water, Ernest spoke, "How clumsy of me, my shoelaces are untied."
He kneels to the wooden floor of your apartment, attempting to make you watch him as he ties his shoelace. He does a sleight of hand—withdrawing a knife from his sock. You froze from where you were, unable to think of anything at the moment. The glass breaking was the only thing you could hear except for your increasing pulse.
