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I pace up the nearly positioned stone pathway, leading up to my door. I flatten out my jacket before cautiously opening it.
I close it carefully, being sure to not make any noise and begin trudging up the stairs, my shoes being incredibly difficult to keep shushed.
Suddenly my foot comes from underneath me and I fall onto the stairs, causing a slam to echo out as my hip collides with the step. I close my eyes and keep still. Please don't come and check, please don't come and check.
Stomps resound through the house, I can practically feel the uneven footsteps rocking the floorboards. I feel them getting closer so I spin around and quietly shuffle up the stairs, one by one.
"Bernie?" His voice tears through the silence, freezing me in my place. I twist my head slightly to see that my dad was indeed stood at the foot of the stairs.
"You really think you can just waltz in without me noticing?" He questioned harshly, his voice remaining rather quiet, although I could sense the anger growing in his throat. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I say a little too quickly, wincing as I realise my mistake. "Just going to get changed."
"Turn around." He orders gruffly, causing my heart to thud so loudly against my chest I'm almost certain that he could hear it.
I hesitate, knowing what happens if I do as I'm told and also being aware of what happens if I don't. It's a lose-lose situation.
"Bernadette." He warns lowly and I take that as my chance to spin slowly on my heel, now facing him completely.
I closed my eyes tightly as his eyes scanned my face. "Fighting, again?" I held my breath, wincing slightly at his tone.
"What did I tell you?" His eyes turn hard, his head shaking back and forth in disappointment. "Why do you seem to think this is okay?—"
I intercept, "She was talking shit about mom, what was I supposed to do, Sit there and take it?" The tone of my voice was now matching his - a dangerous game for me to play.
"Firstly, watch your mouth and secondly, Yes, that's exactly what you do, Bernie. You're seventeen, stop acting like a toddler and take some responsibility—" At this point, it wasn't fear that was dominating my speech, it was anger.
Now it was my turn to scoff. "You're telling me to take responsibility? Every fucking morning I wake up, drag your drunk ass up the stairs and put you to bed - you're the toddler. You're supposed to be caring for me. So how's about you grow up and listen to your own advice before you start lecturing me on it."
I spin on my heel, pulling my bag up my arm and making my way up the stairs. I'm about halfway when I hear a frustrated grunt, followed by the haunting thuds of boots. I may have overdone it.
