Page 24 of Collided

Sitting up in worry, I swing my legs down and slip into my shoes.

The quieter I descend the stairs, the louder the noise gets in the kitchen, which confuses me. Mom can’t be in the kitchen at eleven p.m. She has a night shift and if there was any change she’d let me know. I have no texts from her.

When I enter the kitchen, my spine straightens into a rod.

Dad is rummaging through cabinets, his movements frantic as he searches for something. His hands are shaking, and he’s mumbling words I can’t hear.

For a minute I stand and stare at him. Fear, shock, and sadness have paralyzed me.

It took him three months to show up. Three months that went by without fights. Three months that were safe.

I’m not happy that he’s back. I’m terrified. So afraid of what he’ll do now.

Growing up he never attacked me. Maybe because I’d freeze on the spot and wouldn’t move a muscle.

There’s flight and fight instinct, but there’s also a third one; freeze. That was how my body reacted when he’d hurt Mom, and I’d watch it happen. Guilt always visited me later when he’d stop, and she’d ask me to go to my room so she could cry and tend to her injuries. I’d lay in bed and think about it; how I failed her, how I didn’t fight him, how pathetic I was.

I still think a lot about those momentsandhim.

My throat is dry, but I push forward the word. “Dad?”

At the sound of my voice, he turns around. Red eyes, messy hair, and weeks’ worth of stubble . The plaid shirt he’s wearing has torn buttons and is ripped from places, his rugged jeans have patches of dust, and his boots are covered with dirt leaving a trail of footsteps on the floor.

Three months later he looks like he's been through hell. But why is he here? It’s obvious he needs money, and from the looks of it, he needs it for alcohol.

“Where is the money?” Those are his first words to me. No greeting or anything. Not that I expected it. We’ve never been close.

“There’s no money. Mom has yet to get her paycheck.” I hold my book tightly. I feel safe knowing I have it in my hands.

Dad rakes his shaky fingers through his hair. “She always keeps some here.” He points to the refrigerator. “I took the last stash, there should be more.”

Since Dad is six foot he easily reaches the top of the old appliance and looks for money that isn’t there. He knocks down a few items and anxiously runs his hands through his hair.

Worry clings to my heart at seeing him like that. “Dad, maybe you should sit down. I can get you—”

“Shut up! Shut the hell up. I need a bottle and there’s no money,” he yells at me, then walks in my direction. Gripping my shoulder, he brings me closer to him. “You must have some for lunch.”

What?

He’s asking me for the money that I need for school. He can’t possibly be that desperate.

“N-no I don’t. I swear.” Fear wraps around me like chains. Instead of Mom, it’s me.

If I had money I’d give it to him, just so he gets away from me.

I freeze in his hold. My stomach tightens in a string of knots that pull my muscles together. It’s a dreadful, strange feeling that I used to experience three months ago and now it’s back.

“You’re lying,” he hisses, and I smell his stinking breath. He’s drunk.

Panic takes over me like a storm. I start trembling as he glares down at me with his fuming brown eyes that I inherited from him. They hold no softness for me.

“You’re a shitty liar.” His big hand wraps around my neck and he backs me up against the counter. He pushes me and I knock over the dirty pots and dishes near the sink.

“Give me the fucking money.” He squeezes my throat.

I try to pry his hand off my neck, but he’s so much stronger than me. His grip closes around my windpipe and interrupts my breathing.

Shaking my head, I croak out the words in mere whispers, “I-I don’t have it. Please.”

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