bruised//«stiles stilinski»

Part 3

I arrive home and, to no surprise, see my dad sat with some sort of drink in his hand.

"Hey, son." He says- almost suspiciously cheerfully- without looking up from the paper he's surprisingly reading. Turns out he just drinking coffee. ?!

"Hey, dad..." I say, almost as a question. He looks up and his face twists into disgust.

"What happened to you?" He exclaims, looking at my injuries.

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other and look at the floor, twiddling my thumbs. My father gasps.

"I..." His voice cracks. "I didn't...?" He breathes, stunned. I nod, guiltily, without looking up from the fixed spot on the floor.

"No... God, no... Not again..." He whisper-yells, standing up and rushing towards me, grabbing my face in his hands and stroking my bruises and cuts. It isn't often I see him sober.

"Please tell me there's not more, please..." He says anxiously, looking down at my torso.

"Uh..." I stammer, tugging on the hem of my t-shirt.

"Lift up your top, let me see." He says urgently. Slowly I pull up my top, revealing the horrific purple boot marks and cuts. My father, I swear, almost passes out.

"No, no." He whispers, to himself perhaps? "God, no!" He says, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"I'm fine, dad." I shrug. My dad traces the injuries with his fingertips, and I can feel his hand trembling against my skin.

"I am so sorry." He whimpers.

"Dad, I'm fine, seriously. It wasn't your fault." I say. My dad looks at me as if I'm insane.

"Wasn't my fault? Of course it was my damn fault! I fucking did this to you! I did this! Not you! No one else! Me! Your own fucking dad did this to you!" He roars, tears freely streaming from his eyes. I blink and a tear rolls down my cheek.

"It's not your fault. Mom dying is not your fault." I whisper, locking eyes with him. At the sound of mom, my dad breaks down and pulls me into his embrace, despite it hurting me, and hugs me so tight.

***
I go back downstairs, after an hour of homework, my nerves wracked with possible scenarios my dad could be in. I hope for the same coffee drinking, newspaper reading mood he was in earlier, but the second I walk into the kitchen, I know I got my hopes up. My dad slams a bottle down on the table and looks up at me.

"Remember what I said earlier?" He asks. I gulp.

"How I said I was sorry? Bullshit! You deserved every last kick to your pathetic, disappointing, fucked up self!" He yells. My breathing quivers. I step back, slowly. Suddenly he hurls his whiskey bottle at me, missing my face by centimetres. I stagger back into the wall, as if it could swallow me up, feeling the shards of glass in my cheek.

"Every. Last. Kick. You killed her! You killed your mother, you bastard! It's all your fault! I don't blame her for not wanting to live in a world with you!" He spits. His words hurt me; I've mentally been shot by those bullets. Every last word sticks in my head, making my eyes water. My dad notices this, and chuckles maniacally.

"You're pathetic." He snarls. "Look at you! You're just one big fuck up!" He roars, a sinister smile hanging off his lips.

My lip quivers, and I see a flash of complete hatred in his eyes. Nothing kind of my father is left- in this moment, he's a monster.

The lump in my throat expands. Deep breaths, Stiles.

"What? You're just gonna stand there?" Yells my dad, popping open a new bottle of whiskey and taking a swig.