Becoming Bad

chapter seven

"I'm your fucking father, Lina. Call me that." His breath smells like pure alcohol as always, but this time it surprises me because it's nine am and he is already drunk. Just the fact that my dad is probably getting worse makes me have goosebumps.

"Don't call me Lina," I mumble those words without even thinking. Regrets fill my mind at that exact second and all I can think is that I'm stupid.

Why did I just say that?

"Go." He walks to the side, leaving the way completely free and catching me off guard. I was ready to bargain with Tom, so he could let me pass and now, he just lets me go. "But you will come back here. After all, someone needs to face the consequences, right?"

Ah, there it is. The father I'm used to.

I waste no time in going upstairs quickly without managing to wake up Sammy again. He didn't need to hear what would happen in the next few minutes. My useless cries for help.

I place my little brother in bed, covering him up with his dinosaur blanket. I look at him sleeping so peacefully, and instantly my heartaches. I wish he was a happy kid with present and caring parents. My father was supposed to take care of him at least, especially without our mom.

But soon, this will be over. I pray that my lessons with Damien are enough to protect my brother and me. It's my only chance of making things right.

I steal one last glance at the little boy before closing the door and heading to the living room. Before I go downstairs, I breathe deeply, controlling my emotions, and getting ready to face an inevitable pain.

Tom is standing at the bottom of the stairs, drinking his usual alcohol. My father has a cynical smile on his face as he watches me walk downstairs. My hands are sweating and shaking as I bite my lips, resisting the urge to cry.

When he finally reaches me, he grabs my arm so tightly that I almost scream in agony. He lets go of the whiskey glass in his left hand, shattering the glass when it smashes to the dark wooden floor.

He will make me clean it up with my bare hands, I know it.

"Oops." He whispers in my ear, his hot breath against my neck. A feeling of nausea develops in the pit of my stomach right after his little act.

My father disgusts me. I can't even call him that with the things he does. Tom is a monster.

"Now, cutiekins," he says, using the nickname my mom would call me, and at the exact moment, I feel the urge to hit him. He can't do that to me. Tom does it on purpose to make me remember her death every single time he hurts me. To make me feel guilty or even worse, responsible for what happened to her, "you deserve some really bad hits because you were late, don't you think?"

His voice tone scares me. Tom is much angrier this time.

The fact that the house is quiet, not even a single soul except for us to hear what will happen, sends shivers down my spine. I feel completely powerless against him.

What happens next is something I don't wish for anyone. My father slaps me with all the strength he has, causing me to let out a startled little gasp of pain. The pain shot through my face with terrible intensity, making my tears run down my cheek instantly.

Before I even got to put my hand where he touched me, Tom slaps me again, and again, and again, and again, until I can no longer feel my face.

When he finally stops to get another drink, I fall to the floor. His arm is no longer grabbing me, so I can't stand alone anymore from all the pain I'm feeling. I can't even feel when the broken glass cuts the skin on my legs as I collapse on it.