When he was being genial was when he was at his scariest.

He wanted to put you at ease so that you’d let your guard down. Then, when you were thinking it would be okay, he’d rear back and ruin your life.

“I used it last week.” He shrugged.

Asshole.

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to run to the store.”

He moved closer to me and said, “Happy birthday, Merriam.”

I swallowed down the bile that rose up my throat like acid waiting to spew.

“T-thanks,” I said carefully, hoping that I wouldn’t set him off.

“You know, you look just like her,” he continued.

I started to slip sideways, desperate to flee.

But before I could take a single step, he caught me by the throat and bodily lifted me off of my feet and pressed me to the kitchen cabinets behind me.

I couldn’t breathe.

His grip on my neck was too tight.

And my feet weren’t touching the floor except for just the tips of my toes.

Fear lashed through me as I realized my mistake.

I should’ve never allowed myself to be boxed into the kitchen.

I should’ve stayed where I was and…

His fingers squeezed harder, and black dots filled my vision.

“I hate you,” he commented calmly. “I’ve hated you since the moment your mother died.”

I knew that.

I felt it every time he hit me, kicked me, punched me, or punished me.

“If I woke up tomorrow, and you weren’t here, I would thank my lucky stars.” He roughly let me go, the back of my head slamming into the cabinets. “One day, I’ll be back with her. And you’ll be a distant memory.”

He went to the fridge, grabbed another beer—his fifth if the only one left in the six-pack was an indicator—and walked back to the living room.

I glanced at the television.

He was watching movies of my mother.

Something he did when he missed her.

I looked away.

I hated seeing those movies.

I’d made the mistake of watching one once and had woken up in the bathroom with my face pressed against the bathtub.

My father had caught me, beaten the shit out of me, then thrown me into the bathtub so I didn’t bleed all over his floor.