Remembering Sunday

I stood in the kitchen making breakfast for my dad. He had requested a cooked breakfast, as in, fried toast, egg, bacon, hash browns, scrambled eggs, sausages. The lot. And he wanted it perfect too, he didn’t want the sausages to be burnt, the bacon had to have the fat on (not that he needed to gain anymore weight anyway) and he didn’t want the eggs to be merged together either. Fucking perfectionist.

After trying to fry an egg for the fifth time that morning, it went as planned and soon ended up on the pot plate, along with the rest of breakfast, and took it into the living room for the sick, sick man.

“Hmm. It could be done better, but it’ll do. Now go do the washing up,” dad shooed me away.

“It’s fucking perfect. Bastard,” I mumbled to myself as I walked back into the kitchen, turning on the hot tap and placing plates and cutlery into the bowl, squirting in the washing up liquid. Why don’t we just get a dishwasher? Oh that’s right. It’s more work for me to do around the house.

I turned on my iPod, the song Come Home by Eyes Set To Kill began to fill my ears as I placed my hand into the bowl full of hot water and bubbles, my mind wandering to the early hours of this morning.

“Hey baby,” my eyes looked up from the warm coffee in my heads to meet eyes that were filled with lust. “wanna’ come back to mine?” he had blonde dreadlocks that were tied up and hung from a hat, baggy clothing and a lip ring. Typical wankster, no?

“Um. Excuse me?” my timid voice asked him.

“You heard me,” a smirk spread across his thin face.

“Tom. Shut up,” his friend hissed at him. He looked the complete opposite. Dark makeup, black hair that spiked up like a mane and tight black clothing. Then I realised who he was. He was the kid from my drawings.

Well, Tom. Thanks for the offer, but no, thank you,” I smiled at him. The look on his face was a classic. Evidently, he wasn’t used to getting let down by a girl.

“I apologize for my brother, here,” brother? They look nothing alike, okay, maybe a little, but no. They’re not brothers, are they? But if they are, it would explain why Wankster – I mean Tom, here is in some of my pictures too, “Uhh Lucy?” my eyes widened.

“Um. You know who I am?” I was shocked. Drawing Boy knew who I was.

“Uhh yeah. This might sound weird and stalker-ish, but um, you’re in some pictures of Tom and I, like in the background. And you were kind of in my dream last night. It wasn’t nice, I may add. Your dad was in it too. Is... everything okay?” No. Nothings okay. My dad beats me and rapes me and I can’t do anything about it. “I. Uhh. I’m fine. Um. I have to go,” and with that, I turned on my heel, pulled up my hood and left the coffee shop, walking out into the pouring rain, occasionally sipping at my coffee.

“Who the fuck is he?”

I snapped out of the thought as I finished putting away the now clean plates and cutlery. Is Drawing Boy the type who can read people’s minds. People he doesn’t even know? Is he a mind reader or something?

I backed into the corner of the kitchen, shaking all over at the thought of someone knowing about my dad and what he does. As much as I want help, I don’t want his help, thank you very much.