Discovered

Chapter Three

As I walked into my house, I heard a crash from the kitchen and I knew it couldn't mean anything good. I dropped my backpack and walked to the room cautiously. A thunk greeted me as I entered, and a sharp pain shot through my forehead. I could already feel that I'd have a bruise there, and that worried me about walking around school tomorrow with yet another injury.

"Dad! Calm down, please! It's just me, it's just Teagan." I tried to tell him, unable to stop the tears from spilling over due to the pain in my head.

I tried to grab the bat from his hands, but he continued to swing it around carelessly. I hated this new town. The bar was closer to our new shack of a house, so he could stumble his way home and back easier than when we lived in Oregon. I thought that things might change when we moved here to Washington, but it has only been two weeks and he's worse than ever.

My father yelled something completely incoherent, and I just tried to calm him. He was an abusive drunk, and I hated him. I have no one else, though. So I have to stick around so I don't go into the foster system at least until I turn eighteen. I just turned seventeen.

I finally got him to go into his bedroom, but not before he grabbed a knife and swung it at me. It sliced my palm deeply as I raised it to defend myself. I thought I had rid the house of things like bats and knives, but apparently he knew where I hid them already. When he got into his room, he passed out suddenly on the floor. I didn't bother trying to help him onto his bed as usual. I couldn't even move my hand, it was bleeding so severely.

I walked into the bathroom and rinsed my hand. It stung as I applied some neosporin and wrapped a large cloth bandage around it.

This one was deep. I might need stitches, but I'd use that as a last resort. I suppose my clumsiness was always a good excuse. I was still working on teaching myself how to aid my own injuries such as stitches.

I went into my room and started on my homework, only to realize that my right hand was cut so badly that I couldn't write with it. I tried with my left, and it looked awful... but it was my only choice. I wrote an essay draft and hoped Mr. Jackson would accept handwritten work, since my dad sold our computer for more money toward his alcohol.

Thinking about Mr. Jackson made me feel little nervous sparks in my stomach, and I thought it seemed odd.

I felt something for him. I trusted him, even though I barely knew him.

There was just something about him.