Page 9 of To Hell

I can hear my heartbeat rising to a deafening crescendo, feel the hair on the back of my neck spiking, and feel every joint, like bones clashing against each other.

I gulp in nervous air and nod, reminding myself that I can get away from this if I keep chasing my dreams. That my mom is looking out for me.

I twist the doorknob and step into the brightly lit sitting room. The sound of the football match playing on the television is muted. My father is not on the dirty white and gray patterned couch watching it.

I gulp as I tilt my head away from the couches placed around a wooden center table with worn-out ornaments and plastic flowers in a white basket to face the glowering eyes dagger shooting at me.

“Hey, Dad,” my voice is as small as I feel, with his lofty height now stalking towards me like he wants to crush me under his boots.

“What part of get home before…” his voice thunders, making me and the walls clatter.

“I’m sorry. I was doing a school project, and I wanted to…” I keep my eyes on his boots and the seam of the pants of his cop uniform. “I’m sorry.” I shut my eyes, knowing I will get hit regardless, so it’s better to mentally prepare for it.

“Project?” He sneers, and I foolishly nod. “Do I look like I care about your stupid projects?”

I shake my head, “I thought I could…”

“You what?” He leans down, bringing his face closer to mine, and I fold, taking a step back and then away from him, “Are your projects more important than your father?”

“No! Of course not-! I-I…” I stutter. I might be able to get through this without getting beaten.

“I got home after a long day at work, and my dinner wasn’t ready,” he throws casually, “I work all day, every day, to pay for everything you need. And you can’t do one simple job? Is this the way you pay me back for my hard work? You ungrateful brat!”

I shake my head, finding a narrow slip by the wall with family portraits used to deceive people of what doesn’t exist anymore.

“Let me show you what I think of your school projects, Zoe,” he stomps away, heading towards my room.

I like to surround myself with fabrics, sketching materials, and things for sewing. They give me hope. They make me want to wake up every morning.

He throws my door open with a hard kick, and I don’t mind as long as he is taking his rage out on anything but me.

He stomps into my room, and I follow him. I stand humbly behind him as he goes rabid around my room, cussing and throwing fabrics in different directions.

Fuming with more rage, he turns toward my stool and sewing machine, and with that, I try to get in the way. The machine is not worth much. But like everything else in my life, it’s a reminder that I was once happy.

A reminder that there was a time I could have screamed at the top of my lungs that I had the best dad in the world. A time when mom was still alive.

He slams the sewing machine to the floor, and parts fly, as do I as he grabs me by my sweater and tosses me to the side. I throw my hands forward, protecting my camera, not minding that I might twist my wrists.

“School project,” he scoffs, not done. “You never learn,” he stomps to my desk like a hound in search of its next meal, “What is this?” He picks up the flyer for Moore’s contest and glances at it, taking in the information on the flyer as quickly as possible.

“I stand on my feet. “It’s a contest…”

“I can read, Zoe. What is it doing here?” he barks. “In your room, in my house,” he flares.

“I wanted to…” I sniff, “Dad, please, it’s important to me.”

“This is why you come home so late?” He roars, his voice climbing up in a way that makes me feel like he will burst his windpipe.

I try not to look into his eyes. They are the worst. They have lost every bit of humanity.

“I will make dinner now,” I start to scuttle toward the door. “I will make dinner,” I’m trembling, and my lips are twitching.

“Ungrateful brat,” it comes with a hard smack that sends my brain riling in my head, making me go slightly deaf. Luckily, my earphones had fallen out earlier. “You have only one job,” he is on to something, but I’m still brain-frozen from the hit.

It is when his hand yanks the camera off my neck, snapping the strap and, I’m sure, cutting me in the process, that my brain spins back to functionality.

“Dad, no,” I reach for the camera, but he doesn’t hover before slamming it against the wall behind him, the broken parts clattering to the floor.

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