“Where are you parked?” I ask politely.
As a reply, he shoves my shoulder in the direction I’m already walking. “Keep fucking going!”
We cut around the corner of the building, and I see my little sister, Zinnia, sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda Pilot. She stares at me, and my heart drops. I’m so tired of this. So tired of babysitting her. So tired of being the responsible one in the family. So tired of my fucking dad.
I stop, feet planting on the paved road.
My dad takes two steps ahead of me and turns. “What the hell are you doing?”
“No,” I say. My body trembles. My voice shakes. But I don’t care. I’ve had enough.
He tilts his head at me. “The fuck did you just say to me?”
“I saidno,” I seethe as he steps to me. He towers over me by almost a foot, but his ego is so fucking fragile, he might as well be two feet tall. “I’m done with this. You can’t treat me like this anymore.”
He doesn’t like to hit me in front of Zinnia.Oh, gracious, beautiful Zinnia.His eyes darken, rage taking over. He whispers, “Get in the fucking car.”
“I’m in college now and––”
He screams in my face, “Do you think I fucking care!”
And I realize he doesn’t. He does not care about me or what I need. He only cares about how I serve him and what I can do for him. This has always been a one-sided relationship.
“I’m twenty years old,” I whisper, attempting to rationalize with him. My chest tries to heave, but I hold it in.
His raging stare used to be so intimidating, but now, I just feel bad for him. He’s broken in a way only I can see. And it’s awfully obvious now how weak he is. How his anger is immediate and uncontrollable. He can’t seem to rein in it when the depths of real life like stress and bills pile up.
“Get in… the fucking… car…” he says, shaking.
My stomach clenches, knowing I should listen, but I’m not someone who does what she should do. I’m done with this. “It’s only the first period. My friend paid for the––”
Pain bursts across my face, black and white light stretching in my vision. Before I can process what just happened, he’s dragging me by my arm. His hold is right under my armpit where the skin is sensitive. His hand twists as I resist, tears spilling out of my eyes uncontrollably.
“Dad!” I screech.
“Tigerlily! Get your ass in the fucking car!”
I hide my face, tasting the blood in my mouth. The second I realize how hard he hit me, I pull my body away. “I said no!” I try to peel his hand off, but his grip gets tighter.
“Looks like––”
“Hey!” a man’s voice cuts through the night.
Shit.
When I look over at the man, he’s wearing a hockey jersey with the number 39 on it, and by the looks of his face, I think he might be the guy who took a beating on the ice right as I was leaving.
“Let go of her,” he says, staring my dad dead in the eyes. No violence, no threat, just casually saying it.
My dad’s grip tightens, and he starts to drag me, ignoring him. I can’t meet his eyes, so I comply, walking with my dad to lessen the pain.
Number 39 steps in front of my dad and says, “I don’t like to repeat myself.”
My dad snarls, tugging me closer to him. He tries to step around number 39, but he steps in front of us again.
Number 39 looks at me and says, “I don’t stand by while men hit women.” And then he punches my dad a solid one straight in the face.
My dad stumbles back, releasing me. And my dad takes two large steps toward him.
