You'd Kill for Me, I'd Die for You.

What did I feel like eating? I asked myself as I opened another cupboard. I was in the mood for something, I just didn’t know what. It was driving me crazy, nothing I’d looked at I wanted, yet I knew I wanted something. I had to have gone through the cupboards four or five times now, the fridge as well.

I picked up a can of pumpkin puree. Maybe I could make something with this? A sauce, but for what? Pasta? That sounded like a good enough plan for me. I grabbed the can opener and set to work.

I grabbed some spices and chicken broth, I was just gonna wing it. That always seemed to be the best way to cook, at least for me it was. It wasn’t like I had to please anyone but myself, so it wasn’t too difficult a task.

Just as I brought my concoction to a boil and turned it down to simmer, I heard a car pull into the driveway, an engine purred for a moment then died. I moved my pot from the burner, grabbed a knife and a bottle of holy water that was stashed in the cupboard. I made my way to the door, waiting beside it out of sight.

Heavy footsteps made their way up the steps, sounding a little off balance. Something scraped its way into the lock, clumsily. I couldn’t help but think it was odd, almost as if they were drunk.

As soon as the door was opened the holy water was splashed into their face, I had a hold of their arm and made a small cut with my knife. Dad had made sure all out knives were silver, expensive but convenient in his line of work. No screams, no black smoke, they were clean. No demons.

A throaty chuckle met my ears as I looked up at my father. He pulled me into a tight hug, something that didn’t happen often. Hell, him being home didn’t happen often. He smelled of stale alcohol, it turned my stomach a pang of fear ran through my gut.

Maybe nothing would happen this time? He looked tired, really worn out. Definitely hadn’t shaved for a while, judging by the beard that now covered his face. That was new; it looked odd on him, almost made him look kind. He pulled away and held me at arms length, looking me over. The mismatched eyes I’d inherited looked sad now. What was going on with him?

“I was in the middle of making supper… would you like some?” I didn’t know what else to say at this point.

“Depends,” he slurred, “what’er ya making?”

He was definitely drunk. That wasn’t good, nothing good ever happened when he was drinking. I had the scars to prove it. I took a deep breath to steady myself; I couldn’t show him I was afraid.

“Pasta… I was making a pumpkin sauce. But I could make you something different if you’d like?” just be attentive, don’t do anything to piss him off. That was the key.

He waved a hand and mumbled something I couldn’t make out, as he pushed past me into the house. I furrowed my eyebrows, and closed the door behind us. Should I risk him not liking it, or make him something different to be safe.

He plopped down on the couch as I debated. He made a soft choking sound, then sniffed, looking down at his lap. I stopped breathing for a second. Just looking at him in disbelief. I walked over to him, taking a seat in the chair, keeping my distance. He was crying.

I was in shock, was this possible? This felt unreal, much like a dream. My father didn’t cry, it just didn’t happen. He didn’t get sad, he got angry and he got even. This man seated before me was clearly broken. And I didn’t know what to do.

“I miss her so much,” he whispered, looking down at his hands, tears falling freely now.

I slowly reached over and placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to be comforting, but feeling rather awkward. This just wasn’t done; we weren’t emotional.

Something changed in his face almost instantly. There it was, fear held me still, I went ridged. He growled as he grabbed my wrist. He pulled me forward, and then forcefully tackled me down onto the wooden coffee table, breaking it with ease.

Pain shot through my back, I let out a soft cry, I didn’t want to anger him any further. He had a crazed look in his eyes, all tears ceased but his cheeks were still coated. And suddenly I felt like a helpless child, just starring up at my father in fear. A feeling I knew all too well.

He rose up and planted a swift kick to my ribs, “it was because of you! All of this is on you, you useless fucking bitch. If you’d never been bourn she would still be here with me! They took her away because of you!”

He placed a few more kicks to my sides. Knocking the wind out of me. Silent tears ran down my cheeks, as I gasped for air. I’d flipped over into my stomach and reached for part of the broken table. My whole body ached now. How could he do this to me? He was my world, no matter how much I feared him, I loved and admired him.

He grabbed my hair and flipped me around. My fist held fast to a table leg. He leaned over, arm pulled back to swing at me, hand still holding onto my hair. I closed my eyes and swung as hard as I could.

There was a sickening crack as the wood connected with my target. He instantly let go of my hair and stumbled back, dazed. My back fell a short distance back to the floor. I ignored the pain as I pulled back both legs to my chest, and then kicked them forward into his chest. He flew back, hitting the chair I had been sitting in.

This was my chance. I scrambled up and bolted towards the door. He called after me, coughing from being kicked. I didn’t even turn. I opened the door and ran.

Tears slightly clouded my vision, but I didn’t need to see to get where I was going. My body was screaming at me with pain. But I couldn’t stop until I was safe, and I could only think of one place that would be.