I hate everything about this place, and I hate who I become once I get inside.
Running a hand through my hair, I glance back behind my shoulder, at Gabi’s house, seeing her light off.
She’s still asleep.
Thank fuck.
A dip forms between my brows as I stare back at her house, wondering if I can go back there, and just sleep and pretend like nothing happened tonight.
A pang hits my chest. I can’t. I can’t act like nothing happened when she wakes up in the morning and looks at me riddled with guilt and regret.
“Fuck.” I clench my fists, and keep walking to the fucking hell hole that is my house.
My pulse starts to race when I curl my hand over the door handle and twist it open.
Fuck. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I swallow down the bile crawling up my throat, and take a step inside the dark house. Quietly closing the front door, I try not to make a sound as I walk through the living room.
The minute the lamp turns on, I freeze, my stomach dropping to my fucking ass.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
I turn my head, spotting my father sat on the brown couch my mom loved so much. Now it’s just worn-out, tattered, and marked with spilled alcohol stains.
My eyes immediately shift to the coffee table, where I notice an empty glass and a bourbon bottle lying on its side, empty with the cap off.
My jaw tightens as our eyes meet, and I see his bloodshot gaze staring back at me.
“Are you mute?” he spits out. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“I was with Gabi,” I reply, calmly. Fuck, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed and crash.
He grunts. “Still hanging around that slut?”
I hate him. I hate him with every fiber of my being. My fists clench beside me, and I force myself to have some self-control. He’s drunk, and an asshole, but I can be the better person. I can go to bed, and let him sit here and rot for all I care.
I turn away and head for the stairs, hoping he just lets me go.
But of course, that doesn’t happen in this house.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he yells, lifting off the couch.
“To sleep.”
The house is dark, and moody and so fucking depressing, but his eyes are like fire as they twist into anger. “Get down here right now. I’m not done.”
He never is. No matter what I do, he always has a problem with it. It’s like he’s looking for an argument, and won’t let me leave until I give him what he’s looking for.
“It’s four in the morning. I’m tired.”
“You should have thought about that before you crawled back here in the middle of the fucking night.” I’m so used to his yelling. I’ve grown uncomfortably accustomed to it.
When it’s quiet, I still hear him shouting. His voice echoes in my head, calling me worthless, saying I’ve ruined everything.
I hear it constantly.
All the fucking time.
