Chapter 4
A month later, Tim was fully healed and had played in the game Friday night. They won. His father hadn't even touched him since that night. It seemed like Coach really scared him out of it or something. Tyra and Tim had gotten back together and he and Jason were best friends again. It went back to how it was before Jason got hurt. And Tim had a feeling Jason somehow knew about what his dad did to him, although Jason never said anything about it.
Tim was in the garage now, getting paint in order to paint the living room. To paint was kept on the top shelf in the garage and Tim had to use a ladder to get up there. Once he found the color he needed, he started to come down, but suddenly the ladder tipped over and he fell, spilling the paint all over the floor and all over his father's new car.
"What the hell happened?!" his father roared, hearing the crash. He came to stand in the garage door, holding a bottle of beer with a cigar in his mouth. "What the hell did you do, boy?!" he demanded, dropping the bottle when he saw Tim on the floor and the paint splattered all over the room. Tim stood up when he realized his father had been drinking. Tim knew his father wasn't a pleasant guy when he drank.
"I'm sorry. I'll clean it up." He said quickly and started to bend down and pick up the turned over paint bucket.
"Oh no, you don't!" Walt snapped and jumped on his son, pinning him to the wall. "You don't get off that easy, boy!" he had his arm over Tim's throat so that Tim couldn't get away. He tried throwing his dad off but he was too strong. Tim's father laughed and took a long drag from his cigar. Then Tim saw an idea flash in his father's eyes and he knew it wouldn't be good for him. He started struggling harder, but Walt didn't let go. He took the cigar out of his mouth and, grabbing Tim's arm, he pushed the hot end into Tim's skin. Tim cried out in pain as he felt his skin burning. His father kept the cigar pressed to his skin for a few seconds then took it away and pushed Tim to the floor. Tim sat there, clutching his arm in pain and glaring at his father. His father looked down at him in disgust and kicked the bucket at him.
"Clean this mess up." He growled and stomped out of the garage. "And then we'll talk."
