Thin Line- Charlie Dalton Love Story

Chapter 30: Monday Blues

"Let me out! You old fuck, let me out!" I shouted, banging on the door with my good hand.

I banged the wooden door so hard, an indent was created but not nearly big enough to break the door. I stumbled down to the foot of the door, exhausted from the little activity I had just done. As I lay there on the cold floor, I had a chance to look around the room. It was most definitely my room, but it was a mess.

My white wooden vanity's mirror was broken and bits of shattered glass lay on it and on the floor beneath. My dresser drawers were all out, with piles of unworn clothes scattered all over the room. My studying desk was completely flipped on its side, and my old books and stationery supplies were squandered all over the room. The pillows looked completely shredded. Then it hit me. I crawled as fast as I could to the mini walk-in closet to find what I had been stashing for years. I held on to my breath and under the pile of old clothes, and shoe boxes, I lifted the floorboard to see absolutely nothing.

This wasn't just about skipping school. This wasn't just about the hospital bills. This wasn't just about New York. This was about him finding the years of photos and evidence. Somehow, everything piled up which made him more pissed off than ever. Everything made sense now. Except one thing. How did he even find out that I had been collecting evidence against him? Just when things started to make sense, everything lost its meaning. The only thing I was sure of was now my father knew that I had been collecting domestic violence evidence to use against him.

I knew I had to make a run for it. Anywhere in the world would be safer than here. I crawled to the window across the door, and opened it. My room was on the top floor, but if I planned my fall towards the bushes by the lawn, I would have a soft and safe landing. If my placement is off, then I hit the pavement of the walkway and a few bones will be broken.

I was ready to risk it all, when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I tried to hurry up, but since the window was a bit high, and my body all bruised, I couldn't work any faster than I already was. I heard the lock and keys jiggling, and one knee was out the window. I found myself too scared to jump, so I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The door opened, and I let my body fall.

I felt an unpleasant pressure on my left arm, followed closely by a rough tug. I was pulled back in, my body never left the window sill. I slumped to the wooden floor, at my dad's feet. He grabbed me by the collar of my hoodie and I clung on to his ankle and bit him real hard. I dug my teeth in his slacks covered leg while he flailed about trying to rid me of him.

He grabbed my hair and used it to lift me up. I gave up on my deathly grip on his ankle, owing to the pain. My father dragged me by my hair down the hall, down the stairs, back into his study, where I was just a moment ago. Except in reality 'a moment' was two fucking days. He threw me to one of the leather chairs, I previously sat on, as he sat opposite me.

My right eye was completely useless. With my left eye, I could see the items scattered on his desk. An ashtray, a scotch glass filled a little by the bottle of blended scotch whiskey beside it. The beverage was spilled over an issue of The Sunday Post, which proved my guess on it being Sunday.

I sat there, one eye closed, a broken arm, busted lip, bruises in the abdomen, and a pain in my back. My dad got out another glass, and poured some more scotch into his glass and some into the spare glass as well. He slid it across the table to me.

"Drink up." He said, "And tell me what you were planning on doing with these." He put the brown paper envelope on the table with a slam.

I flinched at the noise, but was not shocked. I didn't answer. Mostly because I didn't want to explain myself, but also because I felt myself unable to speak a single word at the moment.