❝ darling, let me trace the lines on your tattooed heart ❞
● ● ●
〚 highest ranking: #471 in romance 〛
〚 copyrighted 〛
〚 cover made by the lovely cadetcarswell 〛
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❁ ❁ ❁
When I shut the door and turn around, my dad pushes me against the wall. My purse and keys fall to the ground and his bloodshot eyes stare directly into mine.
"Where's my beer?" He growls, spittle flying all over my cheeks. He raises an eyebrow, "You didn't get it, did you? You worthless piece of shit."
This is how my dad is sometimes. If he's had two or three beers, he gets angry. If he's had more, he's too drunk to even function.
My least favorite is when he has had nothing to drink. When he's completely sober. How he is chipper, and acts as if nothing's wrong. He doesn't take responsibility for his actions, he says he's my father even though I deny the fact in my head. He knows what he does and doesn't even care.
I push him away from me and pick my things up. "Dinner was lovely, thank you." I mutter and go to put my purse away.
Walking out of the mud room, I hear the front door open. A tall woman walks in, dressed in red lingerie, and greets my father right as he pushes her against the wall and kisses her. I groan and roll my eyes. I silently run to the wash room, getting my lace bra and placing it underneath my dad's bed covers, along with a pair of panties. That should get the woman mad enough to leave.
How does my dad even meet all these women? All he does is watch soap operas all day.
The familiar nauseous feeling in my stomach comes and interrupts my thoughts and I run down to my bathroom, emptying the contents of my dinner into the toilet. My throat and eyes sting as I continue to hurl, and once all the lasagna is up, then comes the stomach acid. Coughing and sputtering, I can't help the stomach convulsions. My stomach growls at me, now empty of any food as I flush the toilet and lean my elbows on it. My face is in my hands as silent tears roll down my cheeks. I hated this. But I couldn't help it. It's a routine.
