I covered my face. "Goddamnit..."
"What's wrong?" Loni implored. She was unhooking her bra under her shirt.
"No, Loni, don't...I really have got to go..." I felt sick to my stomach. Why did Macy have to see me like that?
I buttoned my jeans and stood, looking down at Loni through the corner of my eye. She looked very hurt.
"What did I do?"
"Nothing," I sighed, "I just have to go." I blinked. "What time is it?"
"There's a clock downstairs," she replied icily.
I went through the hall and down the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief as I saw the clock reading 6:40. I wasn't late for supper.
While walking home, I thought a lot about the incident in the room. If Macy thought I liked Loni before, she's going to think we're screwing each other now. Why did I always mess things up? I didn't even like Loni.
All I could think about was Macy. Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy...
When I got home, dad was laying the dishes out onto the table.
"Heya, Craig. Was doubting you'd show up." He was strangely upbeat. He patted me on the back of my shoulder. Well, he gave me a good smack on the back of my shoulder, which nearly knocked the breath out of me. I sensed no malice, however, and sat down. We ate quietly.
"You got a letter today." I looked up.
"Really, from who?" I asked, almost afraid to. He was speaking coldly.
"Your mother. She wants you to visit her."
"Wait, you read my mail?" I got up.
He got up as well, towering over me, it seemed. "It had her postmark on it. It was my right, damnit, to read what my wife had to say."
I didn't even bother to correct his "Wife" statement. "What the hell is wrong with you, dad? You read my fucking mail!"
He knocked his and my glass off of the table when he thrust his fists against it. They clattered to the ground, the glass crunching under my shifting feet. He then left the room and tore up the stairs.
I walked over hurriedly to the bottom of the steps. "Where's my letter, dad? Where is it?"
I saw him walk out of his room above me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his teeth clenched. He was weilding my wooden baseball bat from little league.
My mouth became ajar. "Dad, cut it out..." I backed away from the bottom of the stairs as he slowly began to descend them.
"Dad, don't...don't..." My heartbeat quickened to that of racing, and I leaned against the wall in the corner. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood very close to me, bat in hand. He was about four inches away from me, and I could smell his putrid breath as I closed my eyes, preparing for the worst...
He got me in the gut with the end of the bat, the handle. I doubled over as he stepped back, and I looked up at him in pain and disbelief. As soon as our gazes met, he dropped the bat.
He didn't seem to comprehend what he had done just seconds beforehand, and he held out a hand to help me up. I took it and got up slowly, still unable to stand up fully.
"Your letter's on the coffee table...here, let me get you some ice..." He seemed genuinely concerned as he helped me over to the living room and onto the couch.
I looked at the ragged letter on the coffee table, which looked as if it had been crumpled up several times. Dad came back shortly with an ice pack, and he then went upstairs.
I was left alone with my letter.
"What's wrong?" Loni implored. She was unhooking her bra under her shirt.
"No, Loni, don't...I really have got to go..." I felt sick to my stomach. Why did Macy have to see me like that?
I buttoned my jeans and stood, looking down at Loni through the corner of my eye. She looked very hurt.
"What did I do?"
"Nothing," I sighed, "I just have to go." I blinked. "What time is it?"
"There's a clock downstairs," she replied icily.
I went through the hall and down the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief as I saw the clock reading 6:40. I wasn't late for supper.
While walking home, I thought a lot about the incident in the room. If Macy thought I liked Loni before, she's going to think we're screwing each other now. Why did I always mess things up? I didn't even like Loni.
All I could think about was Macy. Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy...
When I got home, dad was laying the dishes out onto the table.
"Heya, Craig. Was doubting you'd show up." He was strangely upbeat. He patted me on the back of my shoulder. Well, he gave me a good smack on the back of my shoulder, which nearly knocked the breath out of me. I sensed no malice, however, and sat down. We ate quietly.
"You got a letter today." I looked up.
"Really, from who?" I asked, almost afraid to. He was speaking coldly.
"Your mother. She wants you to visit her."
"Wait, you read my mail?" I got up.
He got up as well, towering over me, it seemed. "It had her postmark on it. It was my right, damnit, to read what my wife had to say."
I didn't even bother to correct his "Wife" statement. "What the hell is wrong with you, dad? You read my fucking mail!"
He knocked his and my glass off of the table when he thrust his fists against it. They clattered to the ground, the glass crunching under my shifting feet. He then left the room and tore up the stairs.
I walked over hurriedly to the bottom of the steps. "Where's my letter, dad? Where is it?"
I saw him walk out of his room above me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his teeth clenched. He was weilding my wooden baseball bat from little league.
My mouth became ajar. "Dad, cut it out..." I backed away from the bottom of the stairs as he slowly began to descend them.
"Dad, don't...don't..." My heartbeat quickened to that of racing, and I leaned against the wall in the corner. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood very close to me, bat in hand. He was about four inches away from me, and I could smell his putrid breath as I closed my eyes, preparing for the worst...
He got me in the gut with the end of the bat, the handle. I doubled over as he stepped back, and I looked up at him in pain and disbelief. As soon as our gazes met, he dropped the bat.
He didn't seem to comprehend what he had done just seconds beforehand, and he held out a hand to help me up. I took it and got up slowly, still unable to stand up fully.
"Your letter's on the coffee table...here, let me get you some ice..." He seemed genuinely concerned as he helped me over to the living room and onto the couch.
I looked at the ragged letter on the coffee table, which looked as if it had been crumpled up several times. Dad came back shortly with an ice pack, and he then went upstairs.
I was left alone with my letter.