I stood frozen, completely unable to speak. My father had eaten my celebratory food? My grip around the fast-food bag tightened to the extent of ripping it, my knuckles turning an icy white. I felt an urge to punch him square in the nose, but at the same time, I wanted to run to my room and cry. Not because I didn't get my meal, but because that bastard had eaten it and not considered me.
"Are you ok?" My mother's gentle voice sounded, her black eyes laced with a tint of concern. My father's expression remained unmoving, unphased by my sudden change. He continued to wear that unassuming face. I couldn't tell if it was inscrutable mockery or genuine cluelessness.
My gaze darted over to my father, and I felt my jaw clench—the trembling of my hands increasing a digit. The following words that left my mouth were ones I had wanted to say for years, but the vast weight of unearthing them made me hesitate a notch.
"I...hate you."
The man's eyes, his gaze, everything about him remained the same. But his voice ebbed with a silent yet tangible bitterness. "You're finally gaining a voice?"
As if his words manifested into reality in some uncanny way, I felt the words leap from my mouth and into the garbage. My father chuckled as he picked up his soda, sipping it loudly as if to mock me through that gesture. My mother remained silent, looking down at her plate. Why wasn't she doing anything?
"There's leftovers in the fridge if 'ya wanna grab any." My father pointed towards the fridge. "We have leftovers? I thought you ate all of them." I cocked an eyebrow, shooting a sharp glance at my father whilst attempting to stifle a smirk.
After I turned around I heard clatter from the table. My father had stood up, pushing aside the items on the table, but not far enough for them to fall to the ground. "Repeat that, kid?"
I remained silent, opening the fridge and scanning it. Among the items in the fridge were leftover ramen, some chicken, and a fraction of the food from Garry's basket that I suppose my mother managed to salvage. I reached inside and grabbed the rub of ramen, which was stained from the inside, preventing much visibility of the contents inside.
"Suprised you haven't eaten this yet, father." I derided, walking over to the cabinet and taking out a plastic plate. I unloaded the remaining ramen onto it and shoved it into the microwave. The quiet, muffled hum of the machine seemed to heat the air just like it did to the food inside it. In my peripheral vision, I saw my father clench his fists, but he refrained from moving or taking sudden action.
"No wonder our fridge is like the damn desert, you're eating all our shit!" My father barked, but his voice wasn't loud enough to stifle it, it only made me flinch a little. My gaze remained fixated on the microwave, watching the ramen on the plate spin in circles as it was gradually heated.
"Am I a mirror or something, because I don't know why you're accusing me." My voice turned deadpan as I felt my face begin to tingle. This wasn't due to tears or suppressed sadness, but rather something I wasn't aware of.
I looked toward my father, attempting to remain as solemn as I could, but at the same time, I wanted to beat him til he bled. "But who knows, maybe I will devour all the food in the fridge, and you'll be tied to the chair your gluttonous ass sits in right now."
I used all my willpower to make the smirk I was hiding recede to the back of my throat, but my efforts were menial as my lips twitched up a millimeter. Before I could anticipate it, my father hurled his cup of soda at me, causing the lid to fall loose and the foul, sticky liquid to stain my school uniform.
"Maybe I should do the same to you—you wouldn't be able to stop me to begin with 'ya damn loser!"
The room fell silent, the only sounds were the hum of the microwave and my fathers labored breathing. Just then, the man's voice severed the atmosphere like a blade. "Look at you, dumpster child. You look just like how we found you!"
"Russel!" My mother shot up from her chair, glaring down at her husband with a look of uncharacteristically prominent rage. Her fists were clenched to her sides, but judging by the way her left hand was trembling, I knew she was about to do something prominent.
"Go to your room...now!" My mother looked towards me, her eyes wide with what appeared to be a mixture of sadness and anger. I didn't answer, I didn't move. My fathers words had turned into an invisible cage. My hands clenched so hard I felt the warm, coppery liquid of blood run from my palms and to the floor.
But this time, I didn't pass out. At this moment, I wanted to see blood. I wanted to see the blood of my father spilling onto the ground, and I wanted to be the one to do it to begin with. My gaze switched to the kitchen drawer.
I heard a slap. My mother had slapped my father across the face, but my father hadn't flinched from the attack. Instead, he smirked like an animal finding its meal. My mothers entire body tensed, as if the man's gaze alone was enough to petrify its opponent into submission. He returned one, except this one was harder.
The woman was sent back, her head colliding with the kitchen cabinets. The collision wasn't enough to prompt bleeding, as she had hit no surface capable of shedding skin.
"What are you doing? Go to your damn room!" This was the first time my mother had swore at me. Her voice was earnest, filled with a palpable fear for my safety. Her eyes began to narrow slightly, and her body began to tip to the side. She was going to pass out!
My body reacted on its own—I ran forward and caught my mother before she hit the floor. My father remained still, assessing the both of us with a cynical, almost masochistic gaze. His lips continued to resemble that of a lion as he smirked. This man wasn't a human anymore—this was a demon masquerading as my father!
I looked up at my father, my vision red hot as my hands trembled around my mothers shoulders. I slowly let the woman onto the kitchen floor, trying my hardest to ensure her frail, vulnerable form wouldn't suffer any more damage.
"Make any move and I'll make you end up like your mother, kid." My father's voice shot through the air like a bullet, hitting me in the face, and in the heart. I looked down at my mother, feeling her chest and her slow yet steady breathing. She was in bad condition, but not in critical condition.
I let go of my mother, scooting back against the kitchen counter. Above me was the drawer containing the knife. The knife I had used to murder my father in the dream.
In an instant, I stood up and opened the drawer, taking out the knife and slashing at the air. All surrounding stimuli seemed to fade away, as every digit of my focus was aimed on my father. I wanted this man dead. He had treated me like garbage, he had ridiculed me, shamed me, and expected too much of me.
My father extended his arm in what appeared like a blur, coiling around my arm holding the knife. "What the fuck was that, dumpster boy?" He asked, his teeth gritted to the extent where I could hear them grinding against each other as he barked those words.
The veins in his forehead were bulging, and I thought his muscles and veins might come loose and crawl out of his body. I let out a low groan of pain as I felt his grip around my arm gradually tighten. I desperately began to claw at his arm in an attempt to stop this action, but judging by his face this man wasn't going to until my arm was severed from my body, or at least broken.
"What the...hell are you...doing?" The tingling on my face had evolved to a sharp burning, a burning that seemed to emit from the core of the earth itself. As if instinctively, I lowered my head onto my fathers hand, biting down with all the power I could. The coppery taste of blood quickly filled my mouth. A pang of surprise quickly rushed through me.
Was my biting strength that powerful? Or was it my anger?
"You little shit!" My father growled, his voice almost animalistic as he grabbed me by my head, slamming it downwards onto the marble counter. I should have been knocked out, but for some reason I didn't suffer an injury of enough grandeur to knock me out. My vision began to blur, but at the same time I felt it lock onto my father like a sniper.
In my peripheral vision I spotted the large knife on the ground. Almost habitually, I lunged for the metal object, but a swift kick from my father knocked me back into the cabinet—the back of my head colliding with the metal of the handle with a great amount of force. My vision continued to remain on my father, but this time the injury was enough to partially incapacitate my vision.
"Since when were you so feisty? I broke your arm and you're still up and moving."
My eyes widened, and as if on cue a roaring pain shot through my right arm. I let out a scream of pain as my fury gradually died down. My entire world seemed to become engulfed in this fiery pain that radiated from my arm. Why hadn't I felt it previously? Why haven't I felt the pain of such an attack beforehand?
"Ahh, there we go. The boy's whining again like he always does." My father's voice sounded in my ears at an abnormal volume, as if amplified with a speaker directly embedded in my skull.
The pain from my arm was too much to bear, and I could gradually feel the darkness surrounding the corners of my eyes begin to engulf me. I let out a low groan as I passed out, my body falling numb and losing all semblance of connection with the real world.
I didn't go to my mental theater, I didn't fall into a dream, all I saw around me was black. An inscrutable darkness that could not be seen, not be heard, could not be felt.
...
Around me I could begin to hear and feel things. A cool wind brushed against my body and I felt a wooden surface protruding against my neck. Above me, I could hear the wind blowing through trees, and I felt something light and small land on my cheek. My eyes slowly opened, and overhead I saw a cherry blossom tree and the night sky.
I felt the pain in my neck, and I turned around. I had been resting against the armrest of a bench in the park. My legs were suspected in midair, and my broken, slightly darkened arm rested on my chest as if someone had been tending to me. When I sat up and scanned my surroundings callously, no one was present, except for a figure standing a few feet away, leaning against a cherry tree.
He had indigo hair, eyebags, and matching purple eyes. It was Shinso!
I felt my heart tighten, but I didn't have the strength to say or do anything beyond small and subtle movements.
"Did you get attacked by a monster or something?" He asked, his voice taking on his usual aloof, almost sarcastic demeanor.