Page 78 of A Voice In Chains
He reads the bitterness his words evoke and sighs. “It’s wrong, son. God made man and woman?—”
“I DON’T CARE!” I roar.
Shocked, he watches me tip my head back against the wall.
“Just leave,” I whisper brokenly, staring up at the ceiling through a sea of blurry tears that hover precariously before finally trailing down my cheeks.
“Fine,” he replies. “We will talk about this when I return.”
My jaw flexes again. I say nothing.
No, we won’t.
I doubt I’ll ever talk to him again. Now I understand why Arkin’s voice was a weapon.
Dad’s footsteps retreat, and as soon as the front door shuts, I let myself bleed out there on the floor.
One moment, I had it all. The next, it was ripped from me in the blink of an eye, and I knew I would never be okay again.
There’s no sign of my twister. It has evaporated, and now the sky is clear.
I hate this cloudless sky.
Bring back the storm. My whirlwind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Voices rise downstairs.
Mum and Dad are arguing again. They’re always fighting these days.
I place the pillow over my head to block them out. Days have passed since I left my room. After my father personally saw to it that Arkin was shipped far away, he tried to move on as if nothing had happened. I haven’t spoken a word to him and won’t open the door either when he knocks. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done. Nigel Beckett stopped being my father when he ordered Arkin from my life.
Footsteps stomp on the stairs. Angry footsteps. The frustration in Mum’s voice when she shouts at Dad is unmistakable. Three soft raps follow. “Zachary, please open the door.”
I stay right where I am but shift the pillow out of the way so that I can see the handle rattle.
“Please talk to me.” Her voice is soft. Regretful. “Please, Zach.”
Reaching for the phone on my nightstand, I check to see if Arkin has messaged me back. But my last string of messagesfrom last night remains unread, so I toss the phone back down, and it bounces off the side, landing on my dirty socks with a thud.
“Zach…”
She won’t give up. My mum is nothing but tenacious when she sets her mind to something. She won’t let me stew in my own unwashed underwear and misery forever.
With that in mind, I roll out of bed to let her in. When the lock clicks, Mum enters my space, her nose wrinkling at the reek. “When was the last time you showered?”
“Do you care?” I collapse back onto the mattress and sniff my armpits. She’s right; I’m ripe.
Mum scans the mess on the floor and the bed and then opens the blinds. The morning sun streams into my room, making me groan like a dying animal.
For the next few minutes, she tidies up and opens the window to air out my room.
The mild breeze would feel nice if I didn’t exist in a tailormade hell. But as it is, I don’t have it in me to notice nice things because I’m wallowing in self-pity.
“When was the last time you ate?”
When I remain silent, she sighs, hand on her hip, and rubs the space between her brows. “Zachary. This can’t go on.”
