His reasons are always the same. One slap, because I was a mistake. Two kicks, because he's stuck with me. Three punches, because in his eyes I'm a disgrace, and lastly, the final knockout hit because I'm the reason why his life was destroyed.
• • •...
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" home is not a place... it's a feeling "
- Cecelia Ahern
∞
I barreled down the streets in hopes of making it home on time. A part of me already knew Robert was waiting for this to happen: waiting for his trusty punching bag to get home just a minute late so that he'd have a "reasonable" excuse to pummel me.
By the time I reached home, I was most definitely more than a minute late. To any other parent, their child getting home 10 minutes after curfew wouldn't be a huge issue - but with Robert... Well, let's just say a familiar feeling bubbled in the pit of my stomach, a sentiment that was undeniably fear.
My fear enlarged as I quietly shuffled into the house and the nauseating smell of marijuana mixed with alcohol filled my senses. The disgusting scent was extremely strong which meant it was most likely fresh. My dreams of Robert passing out early definitely did not come true.
Then I hear Robert's boots thumping against the wood flooring. He marches down the hallway and into the living room - the room that I was in. His eyes were redder than a stop sign and held a glare of unwavering hatred. He squeezed his fists, cracking each knuckle before he stormed into the kitchen. Knowing better than to turn and run, I fearfully followed him. Once I'm in the room, he turns and stares at me furiously.
"Make me some bacon," he says sharply, teetering over to a chair. As I'm cooking the bacon, my fear slowly subsides. He's just hungry, I tell myself, He's not going to hurt you for being late.
I scoop the mountain of bacon onto a plate, trying my best to keep as much of the sizzling grease in the frying pan rather than on his plate. He'd certainly attack me if he burned himself on anything I cooked.
As I place the plate of bacon in front of him, he stands up and offers me a smile.
He's smiling at me? No, something isn't right, I think as I try to figure out why Robert is showing me anything but hostility, not only after I long passed the curfew he set, but while he's intoxicated as well.
He slowly wobbles over to the stove, grabbing the frying pan I just used to cook his bacon and swung around, purposefully flinging the scorching hot bacon grease all over my body. I cried out in pain, trying to hold my shirt away from my skin.
Then in one swift movement, Robert grabs my wrist and flings me on the stove, holding me down until it feels as though the blazing burner has melted away all of my skin down to the bone. He pushes me back into the table, and I go tumbling to the floor in pain while I clutch my bloodied arm to my bacon grease soaked chest.
