Chapter Three:
Louise's POV
I get home late.
The streets aren't crowded, but I'm not in a hurry either. The motivation to reach home early eludes me. Why rush?
For what?
More insults before bed?
More objects thrown at me?
There's no reason.
Still, I get there eventually.
The door is locked.
I knock once. Twice. Then again.
No answer.
Five minutes pass.
That's when I finally notice them.
My bags.
All my clothes. My things. Everything I own. Everything I cherish.
Scattered along the walkway.
My mind is so clouded that I don't even see them at first. It's dark. Too dark.
My mouth falls open.
I'm not surprised.
But I am… flabbergasted.
What more does he want from me? What more must I endure at his hands before he is satisfied?
Anger begins to boil inside me.
I march back to the door and pound on it as hard as I can. I don't care who hears. Let the whole neighborhood wake up.
I've tolerated everything for years.
But this?
This is unacceptable.
"What's the meaning of this?!" I shout.
I keep pounding.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Thirty.
Nothing.
Finally, rage takes over. I grab a stone and hurl it at the window.
Glass shatters.
That gets his attention.
He steps out slowly, cigarette in one hand, a bottle of cheap alcohol in the other. His clothes are wrinkled. His posture is pathetic.
But I don't care.
We stare at each other in silence.
Then he speaks.
"What do you want, you bastard?"
The word hits deeper than anything before it.
"Bastard?" My voice trembles. "You're my father. How can you call me that?"
Tears gather in my eyes.
"You're nothing to me," he spits. "Nothing but a piece of shit. An annoying reminder of that incident. A stupid bitch who keeps causing me pain just by existing. I hate you. I wish you were dead. Killed by rogues. Your carcass fed to vultures."
Each word feels like a blade.
"That's what I mean to you?" I whisper. "That's what you want to happen to me? I'm your daughter. Your only child."
"And I regret ever planting my seed in your mother to produce such a waste," he snaps. "Get the fuck out of my house. Hell, get out of this pack. You are nothing to me. Go away, you pest."
pest.
My own father calls me a pest.
Something inside me finally snaps.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of silence.
Of swallowing insults.
Of hoping.
Enough.
"You're nothing but a miserable drunk," I fire back. "You attack me physically and mentally every day, and I stayed quiet because I thought there was still some humanity left in you. But you're not a man anymore. You're just bitter. Weak. Hiding behind alcohol because you can't face your own failures."
His eyes widen.
"What did you say, bitch?"
"You heard me," I sneer. "And you can't do anything about it. Because you're that weak."
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
He knows.
He can't do anything to me anymore.
I give him one last glare—every ounce of disgust I've ever felt packed into it.
Then I pick up my bags.
And I leave.
For the first time in years…
I feel free.