I grabbed a bag out of my closet and filled it with notebooks, clothes, and a pair of shoes. I couldn't hear any noises coming from downstairs the entire time I filled my bag up. I slung it over my shoulder, holding my breath as I walked down the stairs.
I took a few steps towards my front door. As my fingertips grazed the doorknob, I heard my dad call out while slurring his words, "Do you know what it's like?"
My body felt frozen. I turned around slowly, seeing his shadow in the kitchen. I watched it as he stood up out of his seat, walking into my view. He took slow steps down the hallway. I swallowed my saliva nervously before asking, "What?"
He continued walking until he was right in front of me.
I looked up at him, being able to see how drunk he was in his eyes. Of course, he was drunk midday.
He continued, "Do you know what it's like to have your own daughter turn her back on you?"
I was expecting myself to feel bad. To feel guilty.
But instead, I felt angry.
I snapped, "I didn't turn my back on you. You drove me away by being a terrible father."
His jaw clenched. Anger pooled into his eyes.
His words caused my heart to start beating rapidly, "I'll give you one last chance, hija."
It was more than just the alcohol that was making him look different. The hate in his voice, the anger on his face. I could barely even recognize him.
"No," I replied back without even giving it a second thought.
His eyes continued to stare into mine. I felt small under his gaze, and I started to wonder if he could hear my heartbeat.
Eventually, he scoffed. He looked to the side, and I started counting the seconds until he would finally back away from me.
He stared at the wall for a few moments before meeting my eyes again. He shrugged, "Okay."
My eyebrows lowered. But before my brain could process what was happening, he grabbed onto my throat with both of his hands. My eyes widened as I realized I couldn't breathe, and he aggressively pressed me against the wall.
Tears coated my eyes as I clawed at his wrist. His grip was firm and filled with anger. He yelled at me, "What kind of fucking daughter are you!"
I continued to try and get a gasp of air. My mouth was open, hoping somehow that would make oxygen enter my lungs. He yelled again, his grip not getting any looser, "You're just like your fucking mother! Leaving when I don't give you a fucking princess lifestyle!"
My nails dug into his wrist, and I was sure that I was drawing blood. I barely choked out, "Let me go, dad."
"No," he spat. "You did this to yourself."
I reached around to my back pocket, trying to grab my phone. The second my fingertips had a told on it, he grabbed my wrist and forced it to be in front of me. He knocked the phone out of my hand with one of his hands, sending it breaking against the wooden flooring.
I had a moment to breathe before his grip tightened.
The hate and rage in his eyes only continued to grow and grow. As his grip became tighter, I forgot what breathing felt like. My hands became weak, my vision turned black, and I realized he was trying to either kill me or make me pass out.
The door beside us suddenly burst on its hinges, my dads' hand releasing my neck. I gasped for air, letting it fill my lungs as I held onto the wall to keep myself from falling over.
