Sharp Practice

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Rough Hands

Copyright © 2013 All Rights Reserved

Sharp Practice by Sierra B

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A throbbing pain, so intense it causes Ianna to cry out, pangs through her head surging her out of her unconscious state. “Rhylee!” she cries out desperately, shooting up from her horizontal position. The darkness of the room coupled with the cloudiness of her eyes constitutes her as blind; the throbbing at her temple being no help to her. She firmly presses one of her hands into the mattress that her slender form had sunken and presses the other against her throbbing temple. “Quentan!” she calls. 

She blinks, the darkness slowly receding from her vision; she was in a rather large room, the dim light of a street lamp from outside filtered through the curtains hanging about the window. The walls were painted a dark color that looked black in the low light; posters covered in vague dark shapes occupy three-fourths of the walls space, the rest of the space being populated by all kinds of white paper Ianna knew were drawings. Piles of paper and clothing were scattered all over the floor and Ianna could faintly make out a pair of boxers laying on top of one of the piles. I’m in boy’s room?

Ianna slowly turns and tries to carefully get off of the bed, but she stumbles not expecting it to be so high off of the ground. She half walks half drags herself over to the window and with her eyes closed, presses her forehead against the cool glass, groaning with relief. As the throbbing recedes she wonders how Quentan got up and fought with that kind of ache; she probably will never know. At the thought of her missing husband Ianna sighs and slowly opens her eyes to survey her surroundings. 

Ianna looks outside and freezes, the sight on the other side of the window causes her breath to hitch. Her chest starts to tighten and the oxygen fleets out of her lungs as she takes sharp shallow breaths. With a struggle Ianna turns and collapses against the wall, sliding down onto the floor. She reexamines the room, feeling like an idiot as she takes in the odd yet familiar set up of the room walls which slant at the ceiling, the arch of the closet doorway tucked in the far corner of the room away from the door, the glow in the dark stars having long lost their illumination still stuck to the ceiling. 

She slumps over, her face pressing into the shag carpet just as the door on the adjacent wall pushes open.

John walks in with a malevolent looking smile playing on his lips. “Welcome home, Ianna. I bet you never thought you’d be coming back here again.”

Ianna wanted to tell him all the places where he could get bent at but she couldn’t find her voice to speak. In fact it took everything in her power not to quake in his presence because no matter how much older she got her father would always be her worse nightmare. Screw you.

“What’s wrong Ianna?” he asks walking towards her, the smile still on his face. “Can’t speak? Cat got your tongue? Maybe it’s from the panic attack you just had?”

Kill yourself, John. Ianna wheeze as she tries desperately to calm herself.

He squats down in front of her and yanks her upright off of the floor without actually touching her. “Now Ianna, why do you insist on saying such awful things to your own father?”

You’re not my father; you're nothing but an abusive, manipulative, power hunger, sperm donor. 

“If your mother where to hear you say such awful things, she would have a fit,” John says frowning. 

“You know,” Ianna croaks swallowing the excess saliva in her throat. “I always wondered why Mom didn’t just leave you like she wanted to.”