Page 5 of Fight for Me

“Oh, hi Dad. I know this looks bad, but I wasn’t drinking, I swear. I only came here with a few of my trusted friends. Please don’t be mad.” I babble and bite my lip anxiously.

My father sighs heavily, as if he’s truly disappointed in me. “Jennifer, you’re going to be the death of me, I swear. What are you doing? Your mother was sick with worry. Did you think about that? Now, I will have to tell her you’re sneaking out again. And to a place like this one at that.” He shakes his head with a frown, and motions around the house.

“No, please don’t tell Mom,” I whine. “She’ll be lecturing me for a month straight again. Pleeease.” As I come closer, I clasp my hands in a begging gesture and bat my eyelashes at him with the smile of an angel.

My father puts his hands on his hips and frowns as if he’s considering it, when in reality he’s probably fantasizing about all the ways he can make me suffer.

One of Dad’s officers, I think his name is Rick, steps forward and claps him on the back with an amused expression. “Come on, Sheriff, don’t be too hard on your girl. I can’t count all the times my kids went behind my back when they were teenagers, it comes with the stupid age. And it doesn’t look like she’s been drinking.”

I smile with a hopeful expression at the man and then focus back on my father. “Yeah, Dad. I promise it won’t happen again. I was being stupid. I’ll apologize to Mom for scaring her.”

My dad tilts his head, pretending to battle with himself on how to parent me properly. Man, he’s good at this. Sometimes, even I’m convinced that we’re normal.

The officer speaks again. “Tell you what, boss. You drive your daughter home, so you can make sure she’s safe, and the rest of the guys and I will wrap it up here.”

After a short dramatic pause, my father agrees and commands how to proceed to the uniformed men, then grabs me by the shoulder. “Come on, we can continue this conversation at home, young lady.”

He steers me to the door and then straight to his car, his grip getting tighter with each step to the point of pain, but I reign in my wince and relax my posture.

When I get in the passenger seat, I quickly take out my phone and text Claire.

Hey, it’s me. Did you get away from the cops? Where r u?

My father gets behind the wheel and slams his door, making the car shake, but I don’t lift my head from the phone screen, swallowing nervously. I know I’m safe until we reach the house because the sheriff wouldn’t risk someone seeing or hearing something they shouldn’t. So, I use the time I have to worry about my friend.

My phone pings with a message and I exhale in relief when I read it.

One of the guys drove me home after the police showed up. Don’t worry, I’m safe.

Before I get to reply, another text comes through.

Can I come over? We need to talk.

Shit, what is up with her lately?I quickly respond before Claire gets any ideas.

Claire, no! Don’t come over, I got busted. They're probably gonna ground my ass. I’ll text you tomorrow.

I silence my phone and tuck it safely into my backpack as we park in the driveway. As soon as the car stops, I get out and head to the house. My father walks behind me, breathing down my neck like an angry bull.

No sooner than the doors close behind us when I feel a hand snatching me by the hair and dragging me to a living room before slamming my face hard into the small coffee table. I cry out in pain and my sight gets blurry for a second. I turn, trying to get out of the way of the next oncoming blow, but my movements are too sluggish after the first hit. A giant fist lands in my mid-section, making me wheeze and fall to my knees. I hear hurried footsteps before my mother runs into the room, tears already streaming down her face. When she catches sight of me, she gasps loudly and steps closer. I shake my head for her to not get involved. She hesitates just for a fraction of a second, but when my father slaps me, she covers her mouth with her hands and quickly moves out of the way, cowering in the corner.

I try to move again but this time a sharp kick throws me off my balance and I roll between the table and the couch squealing in pain.

“This is what I fucking fight for, huh? This is what I have to get back to after risking my life each day?! A fucking useless wife and a whore of a daughter spreading her legs for some drug dealers in a fucking dump!” My father roars above me, his spittle raining down on my face.

He bends over my trembling form and grabs my face in one of his hands, his fingers digging into my cheeks, making me flinch.

“Do you have any idea how much you fucking embarrass me with each one of your stunts? Do you want me to turn into a fucking laughingstock at the station? Is that it?”

“No, sir,” I try to say, but it comes out muffled because of my father’s grip.

He shoves my face away as if touching me is disgusting, and then spits on me before getting up from the floor. “You are a fucking disgrace. Go wash your fucking face and don’t let me see you looking like shit again.”

My father turns away only to realize that my mother is here in the room with us. He starts toward her with a clenched fist and when she shrinks away with a cry, he stops his flying hand right in front of her face, not making contact, and laughs with contempt.

“Look at the fucking both of you.” Dad glances at me as I scramble shakily to my feet, and then focuses on his wife again. “Like mother, like daughter. You’re both fucking pathetic. Both always behave like ungrateful whores. You better clean everything up, Marissa.” He then kisses my mom on the cheek almost fondly and leaves the room as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

My mom continues to cry, but I ignore her as she tries to straighten everything in the living room with shaking hands. I do as I was told and head straight to the bathroom, hissing when I turn on the light and am greeted by my reflection. My hair is mussed, making me look like I lost a fight with an electric socket. A giant bruise already starts forming on my forehead where my head met the table, and a smeared trickle of blood runs from my split lip. I don’t even bother with lifting my shirt up, already knowing sitting straight at school will be a bitch.

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