"This is my house," I told him quietly. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know, Goldie, but it aint a problem. I wanna do this for you." He replied seriously. "Don't you think I got any goodness in me?"

"I think you have too much," I admitted, and climbed out of his car. "I'll be back in five minutes."

"Take any longer than that, an' I'll come in. I don't trust that family of yours." He said seriously.

It was pretty late, so I assumed that they'd both be knocked out: my mother literally, and my father dead drunk.

I snuck through the door quietly, and saw my mother sleeping on the kitchen table. My father was in his ratty easy chair, that broke ten years ago, and lost the matching cushions ten years before that. I didn't hear him talking, so I snuck past him, into my room. I gathered my money carefully, stashed in different places across the room. I had done that, in case my father stumbled upon the money. I pulled on some old jeans that were too big, and the warmest shirt I could find. I tied my hair into a strong bun at the very back of my head. I put on old sneakers and wool socks.

I was on my way out the door when my stomach sank. "Girl… where da' 'ell doya think yer goi'g?" he bit out, getting up from his chair.

My dad wasn't a big guy, but he was sturdy, bigger than me. I glanced longingly at the door, my father blocking the way.

"Well?" he demanded, lumbering towards me. I moved away, evading the attack that I knew was coming. "Whaddya think, girlie? Goi'g outta.. tryna party, li'l slut?" he exclaimed, mockingly. "Ya gawtta get my 'permisshion' a'fore ya can do anythin', you lyin' liddle bitch!" he spat at me. "C'mere!"

I dodged out of the way. I couldn't do it this time. I was running away: he couldn't hold me down anymore. I pulled out the dull knife I used for bluffing, and waved it at him.

"Yew dunno howta use that piecea shit," he snorted.

"Shut up, old man," I told him coldly. "Get out of my way! I'm leaving, and I'm not going to come back, ever. I hate you, and I hope you die young from all the beer you drink."

"Aint a nice thing to say toda man who fuckin' raised you, ya little shit!" my dad screamed. "Your stooped slut offa mudder, playin' you off like my kid, ya shithead! I hate you too! I wish you never was born! I coudda had it made!" he menaced me, running towards me drunkenly. I didn't really know how to, or want to, use my knife, and I waved it, but he ignored me. "I was in the fuckin' war, ya bitch! I was handsum, I coudda pick'd what broad I wanteda fuck! But ya'll ruined that! You aint even mines!"

"Who?" I whispered. "Who's my father?" I yelled at him. "Tell me! Is that why Derek left?" Everything made sense. Derek was his kid, and I wasn't. It explained everything. It explained why he hated me. It explained why he went into such a rage when Derek left. I should have realized it, years ago.

"How the fuck should I know!" he hollered at me. "Stupid cunt!" he swung at me, and for the first time in my life, he hit me in my face, where everyone could see. I felt blinding pain, and felt like he'd shattered my jaw. I felt my mouth fill with blood, and I spat it at his shoes. They were worn and dirty anyway.

My mother was on the floor next to me, while my father raved. "Your father's dead," she told me quietly. "He's buried in Texas, in the big city." She crawled away, to hide, as my father leaned down to scream at me.

My mother hadn't protected me, ever. I didn't expect it now. She was a coward. But I understood. I'd be the same way. I probably was the same way. Scared.

My father was dead… that meant, this man wasn't my father. I was so happy. But I was jarred out of my feelings when he kicked me in the stomach, hard enough to make me cough up blood. "GET UP, BITCH!" he screamed. Was Derek his kid? What was my father's name?

Sodapop tore through the door, and through my hazy vision I saw him take in the scene: my blade that couldn't cut paper in my hand, blood on the floor, the man towering over me, hitting me, and my cowering mother.

He ran towards the man I thought was my father, and reared back with a furious punch to his jaw. He turned, and Sodapop dodged his clumsy return hit, barraging him with swing after swing until he hit the floor.

Soda ran towards me, a wild expression in his eyes. I was doubled over on the ground. "Jesus," he said brokenly, and picked me up. I groaned in pain, and he set me gently in the seat, buckling me in carefully. "Marigold," he choked out, kneeling down. I let out a sob. "Are you okay? You aint ever going to go back, I swear. Don't cry, please, don't worry, you aint going to have to go back. He aint gonna hurt you no more," he soothed, his voice cracking. "Jesus, Marigold. It scared me so bad to see you on the ground like that. That lousy bastard." He gripped my hand and I was too delirious.

"Soda, it's okay," I sobbed. "It's fine. He isn't my dad, he's not my dad. I don't belong to him, Soda." I let the tears pour down and burn my cheeks. "I don't ever have to see him again. Nobody's gonna hurt me anymore."

He held my hand to his face and cried with me. "Where do you want to go? I swear, I'll take you anywhere you gotta go."

"Take me to Texas."

Kinda short, but it's here! R&R? Hooray for updates!

Thanks to the people who've reviewed already It means a lot, guys!