You Have My Attention

Zipping up my Motley Crue hoodie, I stepped out of the warm bus and into the cool night air, shutting the door quietly behind me so the rest of the bus wouldn’t be alerted I was leaving.

It was nearing midnight and the skies were inky black, the moon was dim and providing little light and the bus lot was deserted, leaving an eerie silence to fill the atmosphere. Everyone aboard the bus was completely oblivious to me leaving and continued to sleep, unaware of my movements.

Leaving with no notice probably wasn’t a great decision under normal circumstances, but, if anyone knew where I was going, they’d stop me and I couldn’t have that happening. Throughout the day, my mind had spun with ideas and plans as I worked out how to obtain the answers I craved – more specifically, how I could tell if that man who shot at me was my dad. In my eyes, the easiest way to do this was to see him myself; the police had said they’d detained the gunman, so if I went back to my old house and saw him there, he obviously wasn’t the gunman.

Of course, there was a chance he would be out - drinking and gambling with his friends – but there was a chance here I could take to disprove my thoughts that it was him, so I was going to take it. If the house was empty, the questions in my mind would remain, but by doing this there was a chance I could answer them.

As I made my way onto the main streets of the city, I glanced around for taxis, flagging one down when I saw I saw one coming down the road without passengers in it. Through working with Black Veil Brides, I’d earnt a little bit of money and had enough to pay the fare for a trip to my old house and back again. The rain started to pour as I climbed into the cab, thankful I didn’t have to wait too long and avoided getting wet.

Not really one to make conversation in situations like this, I stayed silent during the ride bar telling the driver where I wanted to go; it really was quite uneventful as we sped through practically deserted streets.

By the time we eventually pulled up on my old street, it was just gone one am and the rain had diminished to just a drizzle after nearly an hour of driving. With a word of thanks as I handed over the cash to the driver and a request he return in about fifthteen minutes, I clambered out of the car.

Anticipation of what I would find grew in my chest as I approached the house; even if he wasn’t out with his friends (this is, of course, assuming he wasn’t the gunman) he would still be drinking, but in the comfort of his own home. By now, he was most likely passed out on the sofa, an empty bottle of booze by his feet and his drunken snores filling the room.

Slipping in the front door was easy enough. I knew where he kept a spare key and he hadn’t moved it since I’d been kicked out – he obviously hadn’t expected me to return.

Being inside the house again felt very strange to me and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I really shouldn’t have been there. It was like one of those scenes in a horror movie where the main character walks into a dark place that just screams danger and it’s all just very freaky for the person as the shadows start to look incredibly daunting.

Scanning the lounge, I found the sofa empty, meaning I’d have to check his bedroom and bathrooms etc next. The stairs were creaky, but if you stood in certain points you could avoid the noise – something I’d learnt from many nights of sneaking out as a teenager. First though, it made sense to check the kitchen, he could’ve been anywhere, really; as a child and young teenager, I’d seen him collapse everywhere. As an older teenager, I started to sneak out more frequently to avoid his anger when he woke up hung-over and agitated.

Peering round the door, I saw the kitchen was empty but with signs of use. Pots and pans were piled in the sink and plates were discarded on the works surfaces along with empty beer bottles and glasses. Backing away from the room slowly, I spun on my heel – intending to make my way upstairs – only to have hands grab my shoulders and shove me to the floor.

Looming above me, my father sneered down at me, fire in his eyes as his leg swung forward to quick my side. Shooting pain broke out by my ribs as I gasped, my hands flying to my side as he stormed over to my side.

“What the hell are you doing back here, fag? I told you never to come back! Sneaking into my house, how dare you!” He kicked at my side again before dragging me up and shoving me at the nearest wall, the back of my head colliding harshly with the hard surface.

“I… I” I choked out, shaking as the larger man drew his hand up; I expected him to hit me, but instead, he just pointed a finger at me, glaring before starting to yell again.

“I saw you on the news, by the way, shame that lad with the gun missed – if only his aim was a little better…” Then his point did change to a punch as he hit me square in the jaw. Pushing past him only half worked as he grabbed me again whilst still yelling, his breath smelling strongly of liquor as his fingernails dug into my arms. He pushed me towards the door, not hesitating to kick me again as I tried to scramble for the exit.

With support from the door frame, I pulled myself out of the house. Even though my legs were shaking, I managed to stay upright as I ran back out onto the street, waving frantically at the headlights of the cab driving down the road (the one I’d ask to come back in quarter of an hour).

The driver shot me a ‘what the fuck happened?’ look, which I ignored as politely as I could and asked him to drop me off where he picked me up. With one last studying look, he faced the front again and started the car, pulling out onto the main road and setting a steady pace for the drive back.

Thinking back, I couldn’t decide whether I was glad my own dad hadn’t tried to shoot at me or whether I was disappointed it wasn’t him, because he would have been behind bars now if it was.

Good thing I had an hour’s drive to mull over what had just happened, right?

I raised a still shaking hand to my face, flinching as I touched my injured cheek and lip before withdrawing my hand, noticing the little smear of blood on my fingertips.

It was going to be a long and painful drive…

*****

Once I’d paid the driver and said a quite thank you and goodbye, I started heading towards the bus door. My phone screen read two seventeen, a time so early that when the curtains over one of the windows moved a bit, I was surprised.

Who would be up at that hour?

I decided it was probably just my imagination and unlocked the front door as quietly as possible, inching it open before slipping through and gently shutting it behind me.

For the second time tonight, I turned around to see people I didn’t expect, and – in a way – this was almost more frightening than the first time.

Stood in front of me, some dressed in just pyjama pants while the others were only in boxers, were all five BVB boys.

With their arms folded across their chests and stern looks in place, I could tell I was in trouble.

Ah, shit.