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EIGHT; 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉!
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CLARA HAD FREAKED her brother out, big-time. It wasn't until he got home did she realize how much wrath he came bearing.
It was self-explanatory why. Any time someone leaves more than twenty missed calls to your cellphone past nine pm, it either meant that they were extremely intoxicated or just messing with you. Now according to Griffin Rose, it meant that Clara had been extremely murked.
When he came rushing home that morning, it was not without a bloody fist and the keys that unbolted the eviction lock on their door. Fatass Fred stood at the end of the hallway, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding that had unfortunately splattered over his undershirt. His glare could have burned Griffin's head right off, but her brother was on a one-track mind to care. He turned a deaf ear to everything, grabbed his old gym bag and randomly began to stuff some of her clothes into it. Clara was too shocked to ask why since she'd just witnessed her brother impulsively break their landlord's nose. He'd actually gone and done it after years of hyping it up.
"I'm calling the cops, little bitch," was only one of the many threats that Fred had thrown at him. It included her personal favourite: "You think you'll go to juvie this time? Nah, your ass is heading straight to the slammer and it ain't just gonna be for one night!"
"Yeah, go ahead. Call the cops, Fred," Griffin finally responded with a growling yell. "I'll tell them about how you've been beating your wife and kid's ass every goddamn night. And I got the whole block as my witness."
Fred's lips pulled back to reveal a sneer. He eyed the intrusive heads that were starting to poke out of the doors in the hallway. "You don't have the balls."
"You made a little girl sleep outside? What if she'd been shot dead?"
"Shoulda paid the rent!"
"She's fourteen!" Clara was fifteen, but it's not like anyone cared.
Fred shrugged. "Dunno, duncare."
Ignoring him again, Griffin threw the abounding bag over his shoulder like it was a bag of feathers. He walked past a dumbstruck Clara to grab the few items off the bathroom floor and tossed them into a laundry bag along with her school bag.
He pointed a threatening finger at her brother from the door. "You better watch your back, boy. I'm coming after it. You little punk. Are you listening to me? You're finished, asshole!"
And all the while, Griffin didn't say anything. With two laundry loads clutched in one hand and Clara in another, he marched out the door. Not without hurling the apartment keys at Fred's chest.
