Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

14 | Shifting Gears (Part One)

I cough into my arm.

"—I don't need that bullshit," I hear my father swear, one hand clutching onto his phone while the other has a cigarette between his fingers. He raised it to his lips, taking a drag before releasing a long, drawn-out sigh. "I don't fucking care."

I can see that he's upset, and his body language radiates frustration rolling off of him like sweat. His fingers clutch around the phone so tightly, his knuckles grew white and his lips were pulled to a permanent scowl.

I wanted to take a step forward, but the heavy scent of cigarettes stops me from proceeding.

"You don't know shit!" My father jumps from his seat, dangling the cigarette between his fingers and dropping his hand by his side. The smoke dissipates into my direction and I feel like I couldn't breathe.

"Dad," I choke, bringing the collar of my shirt to my nose, covering the smell as much as possible. He doesn't look my way. "Dad."

My father turns to face me, his eyes burning a glare that could kill an army of men. It made me shiver, and almost regret talking. He clenches his teeth, his jaw growing prominent, and he brings the cigarette back to his lips. Exhale.

"I have to go," he mutters into the phone, ending the call before the other person had a chance to mumble another word. He slips his phone into his pocket and turns back to me, with the same glaring eyes. "What?"

I gulp. I should've picked another time. I should come back when he wasn't upset or angry, or on the brink of releasing all of his stress onto me. I could see him seconds from snapping, but I needed my lamp. I need to finish my homework and I need him to fix it.

"I, um," I begin, stammering on my words. "I, um, I kinda need you to go upstairs in my room. I need help with something."

He furrows his brows, "with what?"

"I just need you to come upstairs," I beg, wanting to get this over with. I fear that the moment he learns the issue, he wouldn't want to take a step in. I'm his daughter. I'm really hoping that's enough to convince him to trust me. "Please?"

He heaves a sigh, like this was an inconvenience, before he nods. He takes one last drag before dropping it to the floor, crushing the bare butt with his heel. "Go."

I think that meant he wanted me to lead the way, and I was too afraid to ask for clarification, so I just went. I head back inside and inhale a breath of fresh air. I rush up the stairs, hearing my father's gruff footsteps following closely behind, and I reach my bedroom in seconds. I step back as I wait for him to enter.

He looks around the room for the issue, his brows pulled together as he tries to pinpoint my problem. His eyes examine my room from ceiling to floor, and I hold my breath. I hope he spots the issue that's practically shining through the room—or technically, lack thereof.

"I don't understand," my father gruffs, turning back to face me. His features grow more irritated. "What's the problem?"

I suck in a deep breath, "this," I point to the outlet, showing how loose and fragile it appears right now—one pull away from shattering the whole circuit. His eyes widen.

"Dahlia!" He scolds, rushing over to the plug and crouching down as he begins to pick at the adapter with intense focus. His voice low, and filled with aggravation. "What the fuck did you do?"

My heart begins to race in my chest, "my lamp and home phone stopped working," I whisper softly, trying to regulate my breathing. The stench of his cigarette smokes still lingers on his body like a second odor, and it was suffocating me within my own headspace. "I thought it was the outlet and I wanted to fix it. I thought I could pull it out."