The Hurt Game

❧ seven

My gentle footsteps were the only noise in the house as I quietly descended the stairs. As usual the third step from the bottom creaked with pressure when I stepped on it. The last step I skipped, jumping down on the floor. The floor was cold on my feet.

As I walked through the living room, rustling noises came from the kitchen. The clinking of a mug being put down reached my ears and I frowned a little. I stopped walking and peered around the living room, but no sig someone had walked in there. Normally, if my father was home, he would place his jacket on the back of the couch. This time it was absent.

Yet when I walked into the kitchen, I was met with my father. He sat at the kitchen table, behind his computer and a cup of coffee tilted to his lips as he took a sip of the steaming drink. His eyes flickered over towards me.

I showed him a small smile as I continued to walk, stopping in front of the cabinets with all the mugs, glasses and cups. One of the four shelves was full of mugs. Why we had so many mugs while only two people used them, I wasn't sure. Most of them had been from my mother.

I grabbed one of my own mugs and placed it underneath the coffee machine, pressing a couple of buttons until it spewed steaming coffee. I kept my back to my father as I watched the mug being filled with my favourite drink. I heard him typing on this laptop. Then it stopped.

"Where were you yesterday?" he asked. His voice was neutral. I couldn't detect any kind of emotion that might be hidden.

"Yesterday?" I repeated as I slowly turned around, glancing over my shoulder.

He nodded his head, but he was still facing the screen in front of me. "Yes, yesterday. You was gone for a long time. Where did you go?"

The coffee machine stopped brewing and spewing. I grabbed the hot mug and placed it on the counter, gathering my thoughts before speaking. "At the bookstore and went to the café for a bit. Why-why do you ask?"

With my mug in my hands, I turned around to face him. He was looking at me now, a stern expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched and the way his eyes were fiercely staring at me, I could tell he didn't buy my lie.

"Why I ask?" he repeated while raising an eyebrow. His nostrils flared for a second. "Because I haven't seen or heard of you the whole day. You weren't even there for dinner."

Words failed me. All I did, was look at my coffee and fingers. My nails were painted white. My thumb ran along the edge of the mug. Silently and slowly I inhaled and exhaled, relaxing myself, keeping myself in control.

"So, I'm going to ask you again. Where were you?"

"At the bookstore and café." It wasn't a complete lie. Royden and I had been there, but only for a couple of moments. We grabbed coffees to-go and delivered one for Arthur at the bookstore, checking up on him as I had insisted. I did that regularly, so it wasn't out of character.

"Waverly, don't lie!"

I jumped a little and the coffee sloshed. The hot liquid hit my fingers, trickling down my hands. My eyes were focused on him, but they were wide and alert. My heartbeat was pounding against my chest uncomfortably. Slowly I took a step toward the open space that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"I'm not―"

"I saw you stepping out of a car. Someone dropped you off. You are lying straight through your teeth, lying to your own father. Now, where were you and more importantly, who were you with?"

"I am not lying. I went to the bookstore and the café, and I went out with a friend. I was out with a friend," I confessed. If he called me out for lying, and I did lie, I knew to confess. To keep lying to him was something that could make him furious and when he was furious, he was scary.