Abused {ACM}

Chapter 8

The door suddenly flew open, banging against the wall. The whole class, including Mrs. Hawthorne, jumped at the noise.

And there stood my father.

He pointed at me, his drunken eyes furious.

He said one word.

"You."

Abby's POV

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to hide.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to do anything but what I had to do.

But I knew what I had to do.

I stood up, ignoring the stares I was getting from Austin and Alex. They stood up, too, almost immediately after I did, their chairs clattering loudly to the ground. The whole class was silent, watching us. Even the teacher was stunned to a look of shock.

I could hear the whispers now: Is that her dad? What's wrong with him? Is she related to him?

I couldn't blame them. My father was dirty, smelly, wavering on his own two feet, and bloody.

"Sit down." I muttered to Austin and Alex. They simply shook their heads no.

"You." My dad groaned out again. "Come here."

I slowly looked at my teacher, and she nodded.

"I'll notify the office that you left." Mrs. Hawthorne said.

I picked up my backpack and hesitantly made my way over to my father, trying to prolong each step. My heart was beating wildly in my chest, more scared for my secret than my physical health.

He wouldn't try anything in public...would he?

But he was so drunk that common sense probably wasn't in the realm of possibilities at the moment.

"Dad." I said quietly. "What are you doing here?" Austin had trailed along behind me, but Alex stayed standing at his desk, not wanting to cause too big of a scene. We were walking about of the classroom when Alex suddenly said, "Austin."

We looked back, and they made eye contact, sending each other messages. Alex was willing Austin to do something, and Austin understood and nodded, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching visibly. Their eyes flickered to me for a second, and Austin took a deep breath.

"I will, I swear I will."

The class blinked, confused.

With that, Alex gave a content nod and sat down. But his posture was stiff, wary. We walked out of the classroom and shut the door.

My dad collapsed against the wall, mumbling something. He smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. I wanted to gag.

Austin grabbed my hand, half-shielding my body with his, glaring at my dad. I squeezed his hand and stepped in front of him, but kept our hands connected.

"Why are you here?" I asked icily. Luckily, no one was out in the hall going to the bathroom or something, or this would be a situation to explain.

"What? A father can't visit his daughter at school?" Then, he erupted into loud, booming laughter that echoed around the hall. Austin and I shared a glance. If we didn't get him out of here soon, he was going to create a scene.

Thinking my dad was too drunk to be violent, I let go of Austin's hand and grabbed one of my father's sticky arms, nodding with my head at Austin to grab the other one so we could haul him outta here.

But I thought wrong. Just as Austin was about to grab is, he used the other arm and knocked me off of him, sending my head colliding my back with a locker with a loud bang. Unfortunately, the owner of that locker didn't close it all the way, so my head hit the sharp corner, and it closed, some of my hair stuck in with it. I fell to the floor, and some strands got ripped out of my head. I sat up on my knees and opened the locker, which had no lock, for some reason, and let the rest of my hair loose.

I never flinched, kept my face neutral. I prodded the back of my head with my fingers.

Minimal blood. But still some. I stayed silent, moving my hair to shield it so Austin wouldn't see.

But Austin flipped.

"You bastard! Don't ever touch her again, you-" He swung for my dad, but I pulled him back, sighing.

"It's okay. Let's just get him out of here."

Austin looked at me and brought a hand to the back of my head. Thankfully, he didn't move my hair back or anything.

"Does it hurt? Are you alright?" He asked, frowning.

I shrugged, trying to be reassuring. "I've had worse."

Wasn't the best thing for me to say. Austin's eyes just blackened with even more fury than before. He brought his hand down from my head, where a bump was starting to form, and clenched his fists together so tightly his knuckles turned white. We walked over and grabbed my dad's arms, and hauled him to his feet. We half-dragged half-carried my father outside, and I saw his beat-up truck on the side of the road, still running, the driver door flung open. We dumped him in the backseat of the car and Austin got in the driver's seat.

It smelled like barf and booze in here, and I rolled down all the windows, and blasted the AC.

"Why do you always get to drive?" I crossed my arms, pouting.

"Wouldn't want you driving with a concussion, now would we?" A faint resemblance of a smirk tilted his mouth up, but it was forced, less teasing.

I plopped down in the passenger seat, rolling my eyes.

"I'll be fine, Austin." I said. This was nothing. It really was nothing compared to what he's done in the past.

"Are you sure you should just ditch? Will your parents be okay with this?"

He shrugged. "I'll take what's coming to me if it means protecting you."

I looked at him and smiled gently.

"You're amazing." I teased, scrunching up my nose and grinning.

He laughed. "And don't you forget it."

We got to my house, and dragged my father out of the car. He was completely unconscious now, and I accidentally yanked him out so hard his face collided with the driveway. Austin and I looked at each other, eyes wide.

Then I shrugged.

"He deserved that."

"He deserves way more than that." Austin growled.

Austin put the keys on the counter, and together we tried to carry him up the stairs.

Let me tell you something, a piece of advice.

Never, ever try to carry an 185 pound man up the stairs. Even with two teenagers doing it - it was probably the most exercise I had probably gotten in my whole life.

Well, okay. I exaggerate. But still.

Add that to a bleeding head, which makes it even worse.

Better thing to do is drag him by his feet - it's better that way so he wouldn't be panting beer breath into your face the whole time you're trying to get him up.

Austin and I both tripped several times trying to get him up, which was funny the first few times.

After about the third time, we both started to get a bit frustrated.

It wasn't helping that my dad was dragging his feet, groaning, hanging his head down. Apparently he woke up the moment we stepped onto the stairs. By the time we got him in bed, it was twenty minutes later and our clothes were smelly and dirty, stained with sweat and other unidentifiable things. We stood in the hallway, panting, having just shut his room door.

"Gross." I muttered, trying to brush off my arms from his grime.

I looked up, and Austin was staring at my head.

Crap.