(formally scream, baby!)
[Name] [Surname] thought the worst has already come; being the town's laughing stock and dealing with declining mental health, [Name] already spent her junior year a volatile mess of tears, mucus and anger. The heartache sti...
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03: Death Follows
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AT SIX YEARS OLD, you learned of genuine fear. Face bloodied and body bruised. You spent a decent time in your childhood nursing wounds too severe for such a frail body. Four years of torture taught you everything you needed to know about the world. It was cold — unforgiving. You being its unfortunate victim.
The night it got bad, you had just gotten home from school. Randy walked you home, as he usually did, and you two were excitedly talking about a movie that was coming out soon. Randy's love for movies, especially horror, started young, and you were pulled along for the ride, knowing that scary movies would never compare to the life you lived behind closed doors.
When Randy hugged you goodbye, you withheld a wince; his hands had brushed against a few recent bruises on your back. You kissed his cheek, and with that, you watched him skip off in the direction of his house down the street. You came inside, and the first thing you smelt was the week-old alcohol staining the carpet.
Setting your bag by the door and slipping off your shoes, you cleaned up empty bottles and clutter. You wandered into the kitchen, where you put the glass bottles in the blue recycling bin, then the trash in the can. Your father was leaning against the counter while reading over a newspaper.
He peaked at you. "Hey, how was school?" He folded the newspaper, setting it on the counter as you climbed onto the barstool.
"It was okay," You murmur, eying him warily. "I got invited to Casey Becker's sleepover. Do..." You swallow, playing with your thumbs, "Do you think I could go?"
There's a long moment of silence where your father stares you down. His eyes swallow you whole, an unreadable look on his face while grabbing a cold beer from the fridge. He cracks it open, taking a gulp before setting it on the counter. You're beginning to regret asking him. You know what he's going to say, and it's not going to be pretty. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning against the counter with an intelligible look.
