"Beverly?"
The blonde woman sitting at the dining room table jumped. "He's early," She thought frantically. Early? No! No, no… this was the worst thing that could happen. The dinner wasn't ready; John wasn't presentable, come to think of it, neither was she. The son-of-a-bitch was early.
"Woman, get off your ass and unlock the screen door!" Richard Merrill bellowed angrily. "This what you do all day? Sit on your backside? Hurry up I say!"
The woman automatically leapt up and scurried to the door. She moved like a squirrel, with short and sharp movements. Beverly Merrill was a nervous woman. She had reason to be. At the door she was met by the furious face of her husband. Silently, she sent a prayer to God that John would stay upstairs.
She wrestled with the lock and was about to swing open the door when it was pushed open by her husband on the other side of it. The edge of the door slammed into the side of her face, knocking her backwards a good few steps. She didn't fall, however. She had learnt that when your around Richard Merrill its best to be on your feet.
Her husband stormed into the kitchen and clumsily dropped onto a chair. His face and hands where filthy from working down the junk yard and there was a strong smell of whiskey about him. The aroma made Beverly's stomach knot. "Funny thing, woman," he slurred, ignoring his wife's rapidly swelling cheek. "Don't smell no dinner cookin'. I wonder why that is?"
"You're e-early" Beverly whispered in despair. Her husband snorted.
"Suppose," He said, obviously amused at her terror. "That ole' fart down the Junkyard let us off a bit before our time." He began to struggle drunkenly with his work boots. "Bevvie," he hiccupped. "Me boots feel a long way off."
With her heart thudding, Beverly bent down and began to untie the laces of his boots. Looking down, Richard giggled like a school boy. "You always did suit being on your knees, Bev." Beverly's stomach twisted with disgust.
Looking around, Richard realized there was something missing. "Hey," he shouted suddenly, making Beverly jump with shock "Where's our Johnny boy?"
Beverly swallowed. "He- he's out p-playin'. Let him be" Richards face dropped. He jumped up with rage. Swaying slightly, be bellowed into his wife's pained face "Let him be? Let him be! He's my son, mine, you ugly bitch. Where is he?"
"Please! Richie please! He 'aint done nothin' bad! Don't go batterin' him about, hes been a good boy all day!" Beverly pleaded.
"Bullshit! He's a little bastard if I ever saw one!" He raised his hand steadily, determination set in his features. "Where is the little faggot? Eh? Answer me!" Beverly winced, but before her husband could deliver his blow, a tiny voice came from the doorway.
"H-here I am, Pa."