Eye of the Storm

Chapter 32

Walking out and seeing my father is possibly one of the worst experiences of my life. Seeing the man that ruined our family, that ruined Leo’s family. Seeing the man who caused so many people pain, and worst of all, seeing my face when I look at him. He has the same striking green eyes, a small, button nose with plump lips and an intense stare. His hair is slicked back with too much gel, so much that at first, I thought it was wet. His smirk sends unease throughout my whole body. He looks me up and down before his eyes settle into mine.
“Esmerelda,” his words scratch their way out of his throat coming out in a low, raspy tone. My mum’s wide eyes stare at me, with an expression on her face as if she’s almost pleading me not to say something stupid and f*ck this up. I cautiously take a step forward, immediately regretting it as the smell of cheap cologne engulfs my nose, to the point where I’m almost gagging on it. He pulls his hand out of his trouser pocket and extends it towards me. My eyes dart from his hand to my mother and back. I’ve been through too much to start anything new, so reluctantly, I meet his hand with mine, shaking it briefly. His long, thin fingers hold my hand a little too tight before he lets go and places his hands right back into his pockets. My heart is beating in my throat and without thinking I’m wiping my hands on my shorts again. “Your father and I are going out for dinner tonight, Ez, I want you to stay home tonight,” mum tells me, shakily. I stare at her for a bit, deciding whether to come at her with ‘he’s not my father’ or some shit like that, but instead I just nod, still taking things in.
“I think it’s best if you just go to your room, Esmerelda,”

Music softly floats around my room, moonlight shining into my windows. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here on my bed but all I know was that the sun was still up when I came in. The whiskey burns as it goes down my throat and I cringe at that unmistakable feeling it creates in my chest before it goes down. Through my blurred vision, I stare at the photo I’ve had stuffed in my desk for years. A photo of a tall, good looking man. His hair tied up in a small bun with a smile that could light up a room. A seemingly kind smile. A deceptive smile. In a fit of an alcohol-induced rage, I tear the photo up and throw it on the floor, taking another swig of the whiskey. I don’t know why I kept that photo of dad for so long.
“F*ck you,”