Falling in Hate with You

FIHWY - 10

so this is late. but in my defense, i have been living and breathing artwork these last few weeks. i have an art show on may 2nd, and as usual, i've left everything to the month before when i had all year to do it. 

i put the pro in procrastionation. 

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Falling in Hate With You

Chapter Ten

                My eyes fluttered open to the pleasant aesthetic of shimmering morning sun rays and birds singing. After rubbing my eyes I peeked at my phone; seven thirty. With a groan, I swung my legs out of bed. Or, I tried to. I was so entwined in my blankets that I ended up just throwing my entire body off my mattress.

                I landed with a groan, and just laid there for a moment; I was always so tired after sleeping, I don’t know why. Taking advantage of my strangely comfortable position, I stretched my body like a cat before rolling over and pushing myself off the floor.

                 I unplugged my phone and shoved it into the waistband of my Batman boxers, walking out my door and checking up on Nik. She was pretty good for sleeping in on weekends; it was like she just knew. Then again, she was an intensely intuitive child.

                Seeing that she was still dead to the world, I gently shut her door, deciding to make breakfast. Making my way down the two flights of creaky stairs, I pulled the fridge door open, finding nothing.

                Right. I meant to get groceries like two days ago.

                I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Heavens for Nellie. If it wasn’t for her and the various snacks that were always in stock in my kitchen, Nikki would have gone hungry months ago.

                A deep, familiar rumbling sound from outside caused me to whip my head out of the fridge and slam it shut. Spotting the light blue Dodge truck that matched our house pull into the driveway, I felt that sense of aching disgust and pain and heartbreak and loss and really just every other negative emotion my heart had become accustomed to over the years flood through me. I watched as Norman tried to get out of the truck, he was clearly so hungover that it was probably the hardest task he’d face today.

Once he finally got both feet to the ground, he staggered to the side and threw up, I cringed disdainfully. Turning around and leaning against the counter, I crossed my arms and waited for him to make it into the house. A full minute passed before I heard him fumbling with his keys and the doorknob. I made no move to help him.

My face was smoothed out into a cold mask of indifference by the time he figured out the right key. His attempt at opening the door quietly was pathetic; I think the Wild Thornberry’s could have heard it down in Africa.

He shut the door and turned slowly, his haggard, once handsome face overcome with guilt when he caught sight of me.

“Morning, Norman,” I said, eyes narrowing.

He flinched at his name; I haven’t called him dad in years, “Natasha –”

“Don’t call me that.”

With a ragged sigh, he just shook his head and started stumbling to his room. I made sure he heard my snort of disgust.

And, just like after every encounter with him, suddenly the day didn’t seem as promising as it had before. The crisp sense of painful reality that I was usually able to hold at arm’s length broke through my sturdy walls and descended upon me in a stormy black cloud.