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I ignored my father, even when I heard the padding of my mother's feet coming closer.
At the sight of me on the stairs, just passing theofrendafor the Virgin Mary, she called out. "He's home."
She wanted me to see my father. How he blatantly displayed his whore out in the open now. To give me a reason to hate him, just as she did.
Didn't she know that I already had plenty?
"Come here, apple," my father responded, and the men chuckled disdainfully at the nickname. It was the label my mother had given me years ago, and my father had picked it up, misunderstanding it.
I scowled at my mother as I strode past her, and the room disrupted in loud praise as I entered. "Way to go, son!" My father stood, shoving away the woman on his lap. "You're just like your old man. A chip off the old block." Putting on a show for the rapt audience in the room. Heavy hands on my shoulders, his grin wide with arrogance. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
I stiffened as he hugged me, waiting until he released me to step back and out of his reach. All eyes were on me, admiration in their gazes. Even Benny, who was hard to impress unless, apparently, you were an elderly woman fighting for your life, gave me a satisfied smirk.
"You did good, boy." My father scooped up the woman, her giggle grating as she curled up in his lap. He took another puff of his cigar, then, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Silence filled the air as everyone stared at me expectantly.
I looked around, taking in the tabletops filled with half empty bottles of champagne and vodka. Their eyes halfway lidded.
Already celebrating. Already halfway drunk.
Waiting for me to speak. To tell a joke,just like my old man.
They had no idea how much I hated them all. That I hated my part in their big success. That I would take it back if it was possible.
And besides,fuck them. They were all assholes.
A small, nervous giggle filled the uncomfortable silence from the blonde, big tittied woman in the tight dress as my father pinched her nipple roughly, demanding. "Well?"
The image of Rook's grandmother, staring up at the ceiling, a vacant expression on her face, flashed through my mind. She had vomit running from her lips and onto the bed, tangling in her long, silver hair.
My fingers curled into fists.
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
His expression darkened. On his feet in a flash, pain slammed through me. My face was on fire as his hand connected with my cheek.
The loud slap reverberated through the room, the celebratory mood instantly cut short.
"Don't you ever look at me like that again, boy." He was heaving, his own neck flushed red with anger. He swiped at his mouth with his arm, then looked away.
The girl, now down on the carpet, stared up at us. Her red-painted lips, parted in surprise. A burning cigar next to her hand.
All eyes in the room were on me.
But I... I didn't drop my gaze from my father's face. Didn't hold back the loathing I felt for him.Let him see how I really felt.
There was a brief moment of hesitation, a small hint of shame in his eyes.
It was gone in an instant.
He sat back down, grabbed his cigar, and took a long pull. Then he waved a hand, staring at the back wall. "You must be tired." Dismissing me. "You've had a big day. Go to bed."
I didn't speak as I left the room and walked into the kitchen. It was filled with food––pots of rice and meat cooking on the stove, with my attentive mother stirring them. Countertops were cluttered with spices and dirty dishes. A delicious smell coming from the oven.
My mom must've been cooking all day, preparing all this shit while Rook's nanasuffocatedto death.
I passed by her, headed towards the fridge. She didn't look at me as I walked by, didn't address what had just happened.