Knock Him Off His Feet

29. Walking on Clouds

XAVIER

"Where do you think you're going?"

I only have one foot out the door before my father comes barreling into the hallway, his stern voice telling me to stay exactly where I am.

"Nowhere," I lie, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.

The click of his tongue is hard to ignore, the gesture screaming disappointment from a mile away. "Is that so?"

I don't say anything. I walk further outside.

"You're going to see that slut again, aren't you?" he hisses. I think I can hear the splashing of liquor inside a bottle, and I turn around to see my dad holding alcohol in his hand.

"Don't call her that," I growl. "Don't ever call her that."

"How do I know you're not just gonna go see her right now? Especially this early in the morning?" He grits his teeth. "Maybe if you didn't sleep with horny little girls all the time, I wouldn't feel as embarrassed to call you my son."

I suddenly forget everything for a moment: my car in the driveway, my girl in the hospital, the bottle of booze in my dad's shaking hand, the paleness of his face and the sickly bags underneath his eyes.

He hadn't been sleeping the entire night. I could care about his health, but I choose not to. He's not important to me, just like I'm not important to him.

I get back inside, yanking the shoes off my feet and slamming the door behind me.

"You need to shut the hell up," I snarl. "Just shut up."

My father always finds a way to keep his manners in check, even while he's drunk. His posture straightens and he crosses his arms over his chest, but his stance is unstable.

"You worthless piece of shit," he begins, each of his words unnaturally curling off his tongue. "You don't love that girl. You don't give a fuck about that girl." He points to the front door with his free hand as if Delta is standing right on the other side of it. "She doesn't matter to you."

I walk up to him, my facial features contorted by disgust and anger. "You're fucking wasted. You have no idea what you're talking about."

I'm taller than my father by quite a few inches, but the way his eyes bore into mine like daggers, it makes me feel like everything he says about me is true. It makes me feel like I really am the disappointment he thinks I am after all. It makes me feel small.

"You're not going anywhere. You're not going to see that little whore, you will stop seeing her and you will stay in this house until I say otherwise."

Something in me just snaps. Maybe it's the hatred that I've built up for my dad, the anger that I've always felt when I heard these kinds of things coming from his mouth, sober or not.

Before I know it, I'm grabbing the liquor bottle in his hand and smashing it onto the floor. I watch as the golden liquid quickly turns into a puddle on the ground, the leftover contents of the flask seeping into the grout of the floor tiles.

I don't try to avoid stepping on the shattered pieces of glass when I walk up to my father and grab him by the shirt. I don't try to avoid my dad's bewildered gaze before me when I practically lift his face up to meet mine.