35 | Smoke Under The Hood

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

MARTES
9:34 PM

Dahlia Gray

I learned very early on to never settle.

Not in the sense of a romantic partner, but the convenience of my home. My house is very explosive, built on the entrapment of landmines just waiting for one word to detonate. There's a pattern I found consistently through all my years of living with my father, and I've always been on edge when I land on the false paradise stage of the ride.

The first phase is the initiation: where my father would blow up—hurl insults at my mother and me, throw objects and punch walls—and then he transitions to the remorseful. He would give us jewelry, offer his condolences, and talk empty promises about how it would never happen again.

The last stage is paradise, where everything becomes relatively normal. My mother would cook dinner, my father would watch his games, and I would mind my own business in the comfort of my own room. We live in a moment of tranquility, but at the edge of our seats waiting for the pattern to repeat. A paradise disguised in an explosive home is as believable as a war created for peace.

The entire house shook as the front door slammed close, framing the arrival of my father's return.

I ignored the signs—as oblivious as I might sound—but I figured he had a bad day. Maybe a disagreement among his coworkers or unfair treatment to his crew. Nothing that pertains to me.

His heavy footsteps ascend against stairs, drummed with temper, before the knob to my bedroom door rattles, followed by a heavy bang. I froze in my seat, unable to comprehend the situation when what follows is another set of knocks, heavier and more vicious. "Open the fucking door, Dahlia!" My father roars from behind, slamming his hand against the wood so hard, I was sure it was going to break. "Or I will fucking kick it down!"

I scatter to my feet, my heart racing in adrenaline as I relist all the possible things I've done to provoke his anger. I've cleaned my room, I helped my mother in the kitchen, I stopped inciting arguments between us. There was absolute nothing I could think of.

I disengage the locks and allow him entrance. I took two steps back when the door swung open, slamming against the drywall so hard, I was sure it would leave a dent.

My father stood before me, his height towering over mine and he looks pristine in his brown UPS uniform. The logo branded at his breast, his name lingering under the tag. He didn't bother to take off his boots, and stepped inside.

My father's brown eyes scan the room, searching for something, before they met mine. A look of fury passes through his irises, his eyes sharp and his lips pull into a snarl. "Did you do it?" He asks, low and lethal. His tone laced with passiveness, but rage with a dormant fury—trying to keep himself calm for a civil conversation. My heart lunges. "Did you fucking do it?"

His words were like whiplash, but I couldn't find the answers he was searching for. My brows furrow together and I scratch the back of my head. I'm afraid any words that leave my mouth would trigger an attack. I whisper, my hands trembling behind my back. "Do what?"

And he cracks. "Goddammit, Dahlia, the papers!" He roars, slamming his fist against the door. I wince, subtly taking a step back to get away from his madness. "The fucking papers I asked you to do weeks ago!"

My eyes widen, and the recognition dawns on me. My adrenaline pours through my nerves, laced with an intermediate fear of what's going to happen next. Shoot, I forgot about that.

My lips parted, but I didn't have anything to say. His eyes met mine in a look of frustration but spots of hope linger behind his irises, hoping I would prove him wrong from his assumptions. The second they connect with mine, he realizes he was right all along and the rampage amplified through them like liquid blood.

I wanted to apologize—I wanted to say anything before the fuse detonated—but the words were lodged in my throat, sharp and piercing into my esophagus.

"I—"

"You fucking bitch!" He bellows, just as footsteps race up the stairs and stops before my bedroom. My mother appears to the scene, her hands wet from working in the kitchen as she wipes her palms against her pants. Fear wagers over me—as I stare back at my father.

He wouldn't touch us, right?

"¿Que está pasando aqui?" What's going on here? My mother piques softly, her blue eyes tenderly meeting me and seeking for an explanation I couldn't give. I shrug, when my father's attention rips to my mother, a look of fury passes through his features.

"¿Que está pasando aqui?" What's going on here? My father scoffs, as if the question was too moronic to pose. He shakes his head, gesturing his hand to me. "Lo que pasa es que tu hija ha estado demasiado ocupada hablando con ese maldito chico, el tal Harlow, en vez de ayudar a su propio padre." What's going on here is: your daughter has been too busy talking to that fucking Harlow kid than helping her own father.

I open my mouth to object, tears welling in my eyes. "Eso...eso no es cierto." That's...that's not true.

He looks back at me, impassive. "¿No lo es?" It's not? He challenges, his voice low and apathetic. "Entonces, ¿dónde coño están los papeles? ¿Dónde está el sobre que te di hace semanas, pidiéndote que lo completes por mí? ¿Qué demonios es eso?" Then where the fuck are the papers? Where is the envelope I gave you weeks ago, asking you to complete it for me? What the fuck is that?

I swallow hard, blinking back the tears and struggling to not relapse into an asthmatic attack. My chest closing in, the room feels smaller, the world bites me at my fingertips and I am too afraid to move an inch. "Dad," I spoke softly, my fingers shaking. "Solo lo olvidé." I just forgot.

He laughs mockingly, "¿Olvidar? ¿Olvidas ayudarme con mi papeleo, cuando convenientemente recuerdas hacer otras cosas? Me como hablar con ese chico de mierda." Forget? You forget to help me with my paperwork, when you conveniently remember to do other things? Like to talk to that fucking boy? He scoffs, not believing a second of what I'm saying. "Eres muy inteligente." You're so intelligent.

And he didn't mean it as a compliment.

"¿Oyes eso, Alejandra? Tu hija es tan jodidamente inteligente. Ella es muy inteligente. Es una de las personas más inteligentes en este jodido planeta y ni siquiera puede, carajo—" You hear that, Alejandra? Your daughter is so fucking intelligent. She's so intelligent. She's one of the smartest fucking people on this planet and she can't even fucking— He hauls in a deep breath, struggling to compose himself. My father releases an aloof laugh. "Gran niña la que criaste ahí." Great child you raised there.

It hurts.

It hits my heart harder than any insults he's ever wielded, and it wasn't even remotely mean. It wasn't supposed to hurt me the way it did—but it did. The words cripple me, leaving me vulnerable to add salt to the wound, and I couldn't even oppose them. They weren't mean. The way he spoke them was: the way the words ooze out of him with malice-intent, twisted with viciousness, and severed my heart in ways bullets never can.

I wish he just fucking hit me.

"Clayton," my mother spoke calmly, taking an easy step towards him. She watches my face, her face worn down with compassion, and the guilt crashes against my lungs, suffocating me alongside his words. "Tal vez, ella realmente se olvidó. Ella no sabía—" Maybe, she genuinely forgot. She didn't know—

"¡Estaba en los malditos papeles!" It was in the fucking papers! He screams, shoving my mother away from him. He takes a backwards step into the side, turning to the both of us with vicious eyes and a glare that could kill. "Estaba en los papeles que se suponía que debía entregar esta noche para recibir los beneficios de la compañía para mi 401K y esta hija inteligente tuya, ¡me hizo perder eso!" It was in the papers that I was supposed to turn it in tonight to receive company benefits for my 401K and this intelligent daughter of yours, made me lose that!

Please stop calling me that, please stop saying that.

I swallow a gulp, forcing myself to not cry. I feel tears crowding in my eyes, a blink away from revealing my emotions behind this entire situation and a blink away from being screamed out for not being strong enough. My lips pressed together so tight, it was turning white, and I'm begging for some release. For someone to stop this pain.

Please.

"Clayton." My mother warns cautiously, a step towards his direction. "Puedes pedir una extensión, o algo así. Nuestra hija tiene mucho con lo que lidiar—" You could ask for an extension, or something. Our daughter has a lot to deal with—

"¡Ella es tu hija!" She's your daughter! My father screams, pointing to me. A nasty look sent in my direction. "La criaste! Has criado a una niña rencorosa que prioriza todo lo demás sobre su propio padre, ¡Qué puta buena madre resultaste ser!" You raised her! You raised a spiteful little girl who prioritize everything else over her own father, what a fucking great mother you did!

I couldn't speak, I couldn't even defend my own mother. I wanted to bawl down and cry, and his words were slicing deeper and deeper, harder than they could possibly intend to.

It wasn't bad, he's not hurting me, but what difference does it make? Why does this hurt so bad? Why do I feel so guilty? Why is my chest aching with so much pain, I would rather rip out my heart than suffer another second?

His insults were wrapped around a layer of positivity, impossible to be retold in the same manner and expect the same reaction. Impossible to grasp without context. His words were kind, but his delivery was sharp. It was hinted with malice, the impression to denote and destroy every self-confidence I had for myself.

He speaks his truth, not knowing the other.

My mother doesn't reply. She couldn't form an argument logically enough to penetrate the capacity of his brain, and how he views the situation. She looks back at me, and I'm trying really hard not to cry. I brace myself for another impact, another hurl of insults disguised as compliments, but I'm not sure I can take it.

My lips pressed together and I'm biting down my tongue from releasing a whimper. I can't do this, I can't do this, please make it stop.

My father turns back to me, no ounce of remorse layers behind his brown eyes. Brown eyes that look like mine. "Eres tan inteligente," You're so intelligent, he scoffs, wanting each word to strike me. They do. "Tan jodidamente inteligente. Una de las personas más inteligentes del mundo, ¿eh?" So fucking smart. One of the smartest people in the world, huh?

I never said that, I never said that, please stop saying that.

"Puedes hacer todo y cualquier cosa por todos los demás—excepto por tu padre, ¿eh?" You can do everything, and anything for everyone else—except for me, huh?

I don't say anything, my hands balling into fists and releasing. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

I hold my front, as my father looks away from me and towards my desk, noticing the abundance amount of work splattered across the surface. He strolls over, taking a look at my laptop—prompted with the documents from SAINT for an assignment—and he scoffs. He slams the laptop close, so hard, I swear he shattered the glass.

I wince, just as he searches my desk and throws out the things that don't pertain to him. He raids through the drawers, pulling them out and throwing the stationery over his shoulders and scattering them all over the floor—until he finds the yellow envelope, unopened since that day.

He shakes his head, disappointment passes his features, and he slams the drawer close. My father unlatches the clasp and pulls out the paper, telling me how the papers were due today and I would've known that if I had cared to do the documents just as he asked me to.

I don't say anything as I withstand his lecture, balling my fists, clenching and unclenching. He recites about how responsible I seem to be, and how I would amount to nothing by the rate of my work ethnic. He finishes and repeats the same word over and over again, crushing my confidence.

When he finishes, he points a finger at me, and scoffs. "So fucking intelligent," he declares bitterly, heading towards the exit and descending down the steps. His steps pound against the hardwood, and before long, I hear his footsteps accompanied by the sound of a door slamming—exiting from the house.

I couldn't hold up my body anymore and I completely crumbled to the floor, dropping to my knees as tears spill from me. I sob, bawling in absolutely misery.

My mother races to the floor, cradling me into her lap as she whispers sweet positives into my ear. "Va a estar bien, va a estar bien." It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay.

I shake my head, refusing to believe those lies. My tears stream down my cheeks, my body completely weak from all his attacks. "No, no es. No va a estar bien, y nunca va a estar bien si él está aquí." No, it's not. It's not going to be okay, and it's never going to be okay if he's here. I choke, shaking my head frantically, my vision blurring. "Lo odio aquí, mami. Lo odio." I hate it here, mom. I hate it.

"No quieres decir eso." You don't mean that.

"Sí." Yes, I do. I whimper in anguish, choking on my tears. "Ya no lo quiero aquí. Quiero estar más aquí. Quiero irme, mamá. Quiero irme. Lo odio." I don't want him here anymore. I want to be here anymore. I want to leave, mom. I want to leave. I hate him.

My mother shakes her head, cradling me into her arms. The warmth of maternally love envelops me. "No digas eso, es tu padre. Tu padre te quiere mucho." Don't say that, he's your father. Your father loves you very much.

I don't believe it. Not for one second. "Esto no es amor." This isn't love.

"Dahlia." My mother begins, serving as a defendant for her husband. "Ya sabes como es él. Tiene trastorno de estrés postraumático, está realmente molesto en este momento y te lo está quitando. No es su culpa. Tienes que entender, él te ama con todo lo que tiene." You know how he is. He has PTSD, he's really upset right now and he's taking it out on you. It's not his fault. You have to understand, he loves you with everything he has.

I shake my head. "No, no, no, no," I don't believe her. I disagree. "Me ama con todo lo que quiere." He loves me with everything he wants.

"Dahlia." She declares firmly, not allowing me to resonate in the thought. "No digas eso." Don't say that.

I pull away from my mother, stripping from her tender touch and turn to face her. My eyes swollen, my cheeks redden. "Mami!" I beg, not wanting her to defend him anymore. "Lo odio. Lo odio tanto, lo odio con todo lo que tengo. ¿Cómo puedes perdonar todas las cosas que ha hecho? ¿Todo lo que dijo?" I hate him. I hate him so much, I hate him with everything I have. How can you forgive all the things he's done? All the things he said?

My mother calms, and her features soften. "Es la voluntad de Dios, Dahlia. Está en nuestra cultura. Tenemos que entender a nuestros hombres, y tenemos que entender que aquí es donde Dios quiere que estemos. Tenemos que tener confianza en Dios." It's the will of God, Dahlia. It's in our culture. We have to understand our men, and we have to understand that this is where God wants us to be. We have to have trust in God.

"¡Solo déjalo, mami!" Just leave him, mom! I beg, not wanting to talk about this. "El me esta lastimando. Él te ha lastimado. Solo vete—eres lo único que me detiene." He's hurting me. He has hurt you. Just leave—you're the only thing holding me back.

"Dahlia," my mother sighs, exasperated. How does she think I feel? "No te ha puesto la mano encima. No me ha puesto la mano encima. Si alguna vez me toca a mí, o a ti, Y si alguna vez nos lastimara, entonces ahí si me iría." He hasn't laid a hand on you. He hasn't laid a hand on me. If he ever touches me, or you, and hurt us—then I would leave.

"Mami—"

"No," she shakes her head, refusing to dwell on this topic. "Dios nos quiere aquí, y nosotros estamos aquí. Sin tu padre, nunca te habría tenido. Tienes que recordar eso." God wants us here, and we're here. Without your father, I would've never had you. You have to remember that.

"No le debo nada." I owe him nothing.

"Le debes todo," You owe him everything, my mother refutes, "Y puede que ahora no entiendas, pero lo harás cuando crezcas y tengas tus propios hijos. No está en nuestra cultura dejar a nuestros esposos sin una razón." And you may not understand now, but you will, when you grow up and have children of your own. It isn't in our culture to leave our husbands without a reason.

But, I don't say any of that—because she doesn't understand. She won't understand that I would never raise my child in a home where they have to suffer through the insults of their father, to lose their self-confidence, to rather wash away with the Earth than stand another day. I'll rather die alone than give another living being the same pain I had to withstand.

Instead, I remain quiet and wipe the tears off my face. I crawl over to the pocket of my denim jacket and pull out my inhaler, pressing on the canister for a puff.

And I lean back, against the wall, calming the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the heavy feeling weighs against my heart, and the collapsing pressure against my bones. I closed my eyes, and I had one thought, one goal in mind.

I have to learn how to drive, now.

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net