𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

22. murdering murderers. (pt.2.)

"It wasn't a pregnancy test," my words shake.

He wets his lips, I notice how pale he looks. I'd say gaunt but the man is clearly living off takeaway and has packed on a few pounds.

"Why are you here? You clearly hate me," he states with an unnerving amount of indifference.

I shake my head, "I don't hate you. You're my dad, I don't hate you."

I don't think that's a bald-faced lie. But with every word, with every action, with every terrible memory that I shoved deep within my brain that is now resurfacing, the truth gets murkier. What I think is a sobering truth, is that there will always be a small part of me that clings to the good memories, however few and far between.

"You still haven't answered – why are you here?" He downs another glass.

He seems to be coping in a very healthy manner.

"I forgot something, it's for school," I force out the sub-par lie.

"Go get it," he tips his head a fraction toward the stairs and I don't waste a second. I climb up them, trying to regulate my breathing. I open the closed door to my bedroom at the end of the hall, breathing out a small sigh of relief that it's still intact, the doors I left ajar still as they were. He's clearly not gone on a rampage in here.

I snatch the duck off the shelf and have a momentary panic about where to put it. I dig through drawers and find an old, worn pencil case and shove the duck in there. It looks stupid, but if I get out quickly it should be fine. I also grabbed a textbook I forgot to try and palm it off as the so super important thing I forgot. Wanting to get out of this house as quickly as possible I walk out of my room and back down the stairs, my father is still in the kitchen.

"Thanks." I smile, trying to head toward the door, but my foot catches on a pair of shoes haphazardly thrown in the dining room in my rush.

I manage to trip, only barely catching myself with my hands. The textbook and pencil case hit the ground with a thump – but notably not a shatter. Small wins.

The floorboards creak as he takes a few measured steps toward me as I grab the textbook, the toe of his dress shoe stands on the corner of my pencil case. "What's in the pencil case?" He asks.

I sit back on my heels, my fingertips pressing into the cardboard of the textbook as I try and calm myself enough to lie.

"Pencil sharpener."

"Open it," he instructs.

"I need to go, Dad," I tack on the final word, hoping to win some brownie points. His hard expression falters for a second, but not for any longer.

"I'm not in the mood to repeat myself. Open it or I will," he repeats.

I put the textbook down and pick up the pencil case when he lifts his shoe off it. With shaky fingers, I unzip it and take out the little duck. He downs the glass he brought with him and sets it down on the dining table. His now free hand reaches down, wanting the duck. I stand up, almost reaching the same height as him.

"It's a present for Rafe, I'm trying to smooth things over. I made a mistake, I know now," another lie tumbles out my mouth.

"I just want to look. Make sure it's good enough for my future son-in-law, he's got expensive taste," one of his cold hands wraps around my wrist, and the other takes the duck out of my hands. He examines it, then gives me an empty look. 

"Do you think I'm a fool?" He asks, scanning my face with his lifeless expression.

I can feel tears burning the back of my eyes, my brain is trying to predict how this interaction is going to unfold.