Chapter 5
666 Words
I stared down at the food on my plate, the steam curling up slowly like smoke from a fire.
Is he serious or not? I wondered, poking the edge of a potato with my fork. He can’t be joking. This is too much for a joke... he has to mean it.
The thought made my stomach twist tighter than hunger ever could.
“Dad,” I said finally, my voice small and hesitant, “do you really mean what you said?”
He didn’t look up right away. He kept chewing, knife and fork moving with slow precision, the kind of slow that scared me because it meant he was thinking. Then he stopped eating and looked at me, brows furrowed, eyes sharp.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Do you think I have time to make a joke?”
His gaze pinned me to my seat like a nail through wood. I swallowed hard and shook my head quickly.
“N-no, of course not,” I murmured, lowering my eyes back to the plate.
He didn’t reply, just went back to eating. I kept playing with the food, stirring it around with my fork, pretending to eat. My appetite had vanished the second he sat down across from me.
If he’s serious, I thought, then I can’t make him angry. Not now. Not when there’s a chance he might actually mean it.
The sound of his chair scraping against the floor made me flinch. He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carried his plate to the sink.
“Wash up the dishes,” he said flatly. “I’m going for a nap.”
Then he disappeared down the hallway.
I sat frozen for a moment, waiting. I counted the seconds…one, two, three, until I heard his bedroom door slam shut.
Only then did I move.
“Finally,” I whispered to myself, letting out a shaky breath.
I stood up, grabbed my plate, and walked to the kitchen. The smell of the food hit me again, and my stomach turned. I dumped it straight into the trash can.
“There’s no way in hell I’m eating anything he cooks,” I muttered under my breath. “Only if I make it myself.”
My voice trembled slightly, but it felt good to say something out loud, even if no one was there to hear it.
I cleaned up the dishes quietly, scrubbing his plate and cup until they squeaked against the sink. Every sound made me tense, afraid I’d hear his footsteps coming back down the hall.
When I finished, I wiped the counter, dried my hands, and tiptoed back to my room. I closed the door carefully, pressing the handle down so it wouldn’t click. The silence that followed was a small mercy.
I sighed in relief, leaning my back against the door for a moment before walking to my bed. The room was dim, the light from the window fading into a dull orange. I fell face-first into my pillow, burying my scream into it so the sound wouldn’t escape.
“Ughhh, I hate my life so much,” I groaned, kicking my legs against the mattress in frustration until my energy gave out.
After a while, I stopped moving, staring up at the ceiling. The old fan spun lazily, making soft clicking sounds that filled the quiet. My breathing slowed, and the exhaustion from the day began to settle in.
What if he really meant it? I thought. What if this is my chance to finally leave?
It was a fragile hope, one I’d learned not to trust. But still… it was there.
As my eyes grew heavy, my thoughts began to blur together, bits of fear, bits of hope, and the faintest dream of freedom.
Maybe this time... maybe I can finally get away, I thought.
And with that, I drifted off to sleep, clinging to the smallest flicker of hope in the darkness.
- Writer
