part I
--don't let the door hit you--
"i hit like i party: fast and hard"
-unknown
"Thank you, officer."
He had his don't fuck with me face on (similar to his I gotta take a huge dump face, too, if it matters) and his fingernails dug into my shoulder like rusty knives. The officer, who I suspected wasn't really interested in our affairs, handed me a slip of paper with a number on it. A high number.
The door shut, and Frank waited until the hovering sound of the police cruiser faded off to shove me into the wall. "You drove my car off a cliff?"
I played with the idea of spitting on him, but decided that might be overkill. Instead, I smirked. "Not all of it," I said. "I think the top is still lying in the dirt somewhere."
His fingers clenched and unclenched, the fat little vein on his neck pulsing like a writhing worm. His face--scrunched tight, like it got caught down the drain--was turning very red very fast.
"My..the top...you..." He wanted to hit me. He really wanted to hit me.
Before, it was hardly an option. More like a far distance thought that I never really took a moment to entertain as a realistic possibility.
Now, his skin seemed to tighten around his face, as though working to keep the blood in it's veins. His fist was so tight the knuckles were bone-white. His breath came out like a bull's; harsh and quick and loud and smelling like shit. I backed off a bit, my shoulder blades brushing the wall.
"That...was...an...antique..." Frank huffed. "That car was worth more then your whole life."
I bit my tongue to keep the snark where it belonged, and waited for him to retreat to his car, like he always--oh, shit.
"I should beat you shitless, you little punk." A mad, furious giggle got caught in my throat. One of those laughs you get during moments of panic, one you can't control and come at the most inconvenient times.
"Let's see how well that rolls over with your wife," I said, the words acting like the cough to cover up the insane bout of snickers burning my throat.
His teeth mashed together like nothing else I've seen, and it seemed as though he might burst at the seams.
He spoke again, so quietly I hardly heard him. "When your eighteen..." he seethed. "Oh, when your eighteen..."
When I'm eighteen what? he wanted to ask, like a subtle dare of restraint. I didn't say it, though, didn't say anything.
Unfortunately, the laugh was like the match in the oil.
A billow of anger echoed against the walls and I barely ducked in time to avoid the meaty fist coming my way. I slid beside his legs and strode across the small hallways of our house. I could run outside, or I could hide in the bathroom. The only easy exit from the house was right in Frank's path...
The bathroom door decided to be merciful and slid open with next to little effort (or once) and I slammed it so hard it made a resounding crack and splinters fell at my feet.
"You little shit!" Frank cried. "Open this door!"
As I held my back against the door, I felt his boot smacking the wood outside, jolting me up, down, up, down until I thought my spine would crack.
It took moments, maybe twenty, before the furious bellows ceased and the pressure was lifted from his back. The door across the hall leading to the garage (where two other slightly more modern cars sat) slammed, and an engine rolled away.
My heart still beat, furiously against my ribcage, and my breath came out in short, gasping burst. I'd been holding my breath.
I slid down the door and sat on the tiled floor, looking down at my fingers, bloodied from gripping the dirt road for dear-goddamn-life.
I smiled. Worth it.
--end--
A/N Hm. Gonna be more, probably. With Spock and shit. Yay.