It's evening; dinner is finished, Norman has helped his mother with the dishes (now that they no longer have servants to take care of that), and he is in his room at his desk, the only sound being the scratch of his pencil on paper as he does his homework. Too soon the silence is broken by a smash downstairs, and he flinches. It's happened earlier than he thought it would, but then again he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. His father had started early tonight; a double shot of bourbon after he got home from the office and didn't stop once he started. Norman got up from his desk and put a record on the player, but the classical music only muted out the noise downstairs. It did nothing to drown out the sound of his mother crying when she ran to lock herself in her and his father's bedroom. Norman's jaw clenched, anger and frustration burning like acid deep down inside, but what could he do? He was just a kid. Call the cops? Yeah, right. They'd just blow it off like they did last time; just a little domestic spat, nothing to get involved in. And then his father would take it out on him. No, his mother might be resigned to stay where she is, too weak to help herself and get out, but not Norman. He was going to escape, and his way out was right at his fingertips. His grades were good enough that he made the honor roll every semester, and he planned to keep it up, until his academic record was so bright that the Ivy League schools would be lining up at his door with full scholarships. Knowledge; it was his route to freedom, and he would ride it like a magic carpet out the door, and leave this house and everyone in it far behind.