Anxiety wraps around me like an ever-growing vine, its branches getting tighter and fierce. My breathing reduces to shallow pants with oxygen scarcely entering my lungs.
“How’s school?” Dad asks, leaning back in his chair that creaks under his weight. He is tall and built, with strength that can easily break someone like me.
I can never think about standing up to him. Because in the end, I will be the one to get hurt.
“Good,” I mumble and reach for the glass.
He watches me closely. “How are your grades?”
“Good.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t be a smartass. Answer the questions clearly.”
“Hope,” Mom is behind Dad so he doesn’t see the pleading look she sends me. “Tell us more, honey.”
My hands start shaking under the table. So I clasp them together, but then my fingers begin to fidget with each other. An itch that refuses to go away no matter how much I rub the skin.
I want to get out of here.
I feel scared.
That storm cloud isn’t growing away. It’s only getting darker.
Something is going to happen.
Taking a deep breath, I answer him.
“School is the same. Um…nothing new.” I elaborate, knowing that what I said is basically nothing. The problem is I can’t manage my head to function. It’s too busy fighting off the anxiety attacks.
He arches an eyebrow. “Got any friends? Or are you still a loner?”
I think of Marie, Sebastian and Heath. My friends.
Everything in me wants to protect them so I shake my head.
Dad scoffs, calling my bluff, but doesn’t say a word.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom chirps and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I made the gravy just the way you like it.”
“Thanks, sweet.” He grins at her.
“Do you need help, Mom?” I stand up before she can refuse me. I can’t sit still and watch him, not when he looks at me with such a steady, dark gaze that makes goosebumps rise over my arms.
“Yes, she does,” Dad glares at me. “Be useful and help her.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. The sensation so sudden and strong it further puts me at unease.
Instinctively, my gaze meets Mom’s and she looks at me as if nothing is wrong.
Shoving down the disappointment, I scurry towards the cabinets and take out plates and cutlery. I linger, dragging time out like it might agree to stop for me, but eventually I run out of it. There’s only three of us, not six. Returning to the table, I place the plates down one by one, then the cutlery.
Then I’m left with no option other than to sit and eat with them.
Mom sits next to him and looks happy as she leans over and kisses him.
I avert my gaze and find a spot in the old, weathered table, its surface rough and scarred with years of use.
“We should eat,” Dad announces.
