Mom and Dad Hate Each Other (✅)

Chapter One

The sound of thudding wakes me up from a dreamless sleep. As usual, it comes from the kitchen and from the sound of it, I can tell it was Dad who landed the blow.

He's a thicker man, standing only 5'6, but weighing around 220lbs. Not much of that was fat, either.

Right on time, the second slightly lighter thud comes, and from what I can tell, it was Mom who got her shots in.

She stands at a slightly lanky 5 feet and weighs a far less intimidating 110lbs, but by no means can she be described as a pushover.

I yawn as I check the clock, which reads 7:30am.

Hey, they made it half an hour longer than usual before being at each others' throats this morning.

I walk over to the mirror and brush out my nappy black hair as best as I can, brush my teeth, and dress myself in my favorite plain black t-shirt and jeans, briefly looking over my face for any blemishes.

My soft, dark eyes check every inch before coming up clean of any change. I swear, I never had any problems with zits before, but the moment I hit twelve, my slightly round face started to look like a pizza full of little green volcanoes.

Pardon my colorful details. It's always been my talent, especially when describing nasty stuff.

With much annoyance, I leave my bathroom and walk downstairs to play referee.

As usual, Dad is swinging for the fences, throwing his heavy punches and kicks. I wonder if he had ever stopped to think about what would ever happen if he actually hit Mom with one of those kicks full force.

Luckily, we haven't found out yet because Mom is dodging his blows with lightning fast speed, mimicking a mantis more than a 28 year old woman.

"You are too slow and stiff, old man!" she mocks angerly.

Dad is only 30 years old, but his age was always his tipping point in terms of anger. He is pretty insecure about his stressed out, and slightly aging appearance.

"Well, why don't you quit dancing like a bug and come fight me, shrimp!" he shoots back, knowing full well that my mother's height was her tipping point.

They swiftly separate before Mom pulls out her favorite sleeve of throwing darts.

'Oh, boy. Here we go with this again,' is all I manage to think before Dad pulls out his own throwing knives, and soon, the darts and knives were flying through the air, both of them dodging.

This all continued until all nine of their projectiles were embedded into the already heavily damaged walls of our kitchen.

You would think that after twelve years of marriage and four years of fighting each other, that they would realize that both of them only carried nine each, but maybe they are too busy dodging them to count or they just couldn't fit anymore on them.

Either way, they quickly realize their pockets were empty and simply begin to stare each other down before Dad breaks the silence.

"I, Kane Wong, rightful successor to the once proud Tiger Triad, shall not take your insult lightly, you she bitch!" he says in his usual subtle way.

My mother, without missing a beat, responds.

"And I, Caedmon Wong, rightful heiress to the Mantis Triad, shall not be defeated by Japanese scum like you!"

"And I, Chelsea Wong, rightful victim to two tests and band practice today, has a knife in her arm!" I butt in immediately after noticing my little problem.

"Chelsea!" they both exclaim in unison as they run to me and sit me down at the burned and splintered kitchen table.

Dad quickly yanks the knife out, much to my and Mom's annoyance, but I instantly forgive him for his lack of a gentle touch.

Mom then sprays some kind of disinfectant on the wound before cleaning and gently wrapping it with bandages.

"You need to work on dodging," Mom says as she strokes my hair, her soft Chinese features putting me at ease.

"What she needs is to be tough," Dad says, flexing his huge biceps that look like softballs under his skin.

Mom just rolls her eyes and slaps a pink Hello Kitty band-aid over the cut on his cheek. The sight of such an imposing man, with a less than amused scowl, wearing such a thing makes both me and Mom snicker.

"What's this I hear about tests?" He asks sternly while peeling off the horrid band-aid.

"Oh, it's just a writing and math test," I respond nonchalantly.

"Did you study?" Mom asks, back to her normal stern self, too, while walking to the counter to retrieve breakfast.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer politely.

Call it a stereotype, but Mom and Dad make sure to put my school work above all else, even their strange objective of killing each other. They make sure my grades are the highest in the school, and have me on the right track to earning a scholarship to one of the best private middle schools.

Mom places a plate of black bacon and even blacker eggs in front of me, which doesn't surprise me one bit. Her cooking skills are actually pretty impressive under normal circumstances, but these past four years have turned cooking time into a fight for survival.

"It looks delicious, Mom," I say, only half lying, starving too much to really care about the appearance.

That's when Dad places a plate of what looks like black rocks on the table.

"They're donuts," he says blankly, making me smile. Unlike Mom, Dad does not do well in the kitchen and has no excuses for what is supposed to be food.

"Be careful, dear. Donuts will kill you, especially, if your father makes them," Mom chimes in with a prideful look on her face and her nose in the air.

"Maybe you should wrap them in your mother's bacon to speed up the process!" he mocks back and suddenly my parents glare at each other for so long that they seem to forget that I was in the room.

I quickly grab a donut and a fist full of bacon before running out the door as not to be caught in the middle of round two.