Ch. 39: Lull

TW: Domestic Violence

-Bennett-

I was almost at the door to my room.

Just a few more steps.

"There you are," the deep, irate voice called out past the cloak of darkness at the end of the hallway. I turned back, tensing up as he stepped forward, the only telling sign being the creaking beneath his feet; he invited himself into my room before I could reply, shoving past me before comfortably settling down on my desk chair.

I glanced down at my father, blinking at him with bleary, half-lidded eyes that felt too heavy to keep fully open. I blinked once, twice, wondering if perhaps I'd imagined him barging inside. But he wouldn't disappear.

"It's late," he declared. "Why the hell are you home this late?"

Why was he awake?

He was never awake at this time.

I just stared back numbly, a bit at a loss for words. I hadn't expected anyone to still be up. All the lights had been off.

Even in my hazy exhaustion, I had made sure that they were off before stepping inside the house.

I wouldn't have gone in otherwise.

No. I would have stumbled up and down the street if need be. But I wouldn't have come inside.

"Well?" he pressed rather impatiently, tapping his fingers on the surface of my wooden desk. "Where the hell were you?"

"I—I was at the gym," I explained rather hastily, unable to meet his gaze. "Work ran late."

He reached out to the end of my desk, his index tracing around the ring of faded paint, huffing disapprovingly before glancing back up at me. A soft, rhythmic pulse picked up once I didn't reply, his eyes narrowing in frustration. "Your work ends at eight."

I blinked once more, slowly nodding my head in acknowledgement.

I needed to reply.

I needed something he couldn't refute. "Mr. Phelps asked a few of us to stay back. S-some new equipment came in, so we had to help set it up," I lied, unable to look up as I shrugged off my backpack, setting it down beside the foot of my bed.

I was thankful I'd taken a shower at the gym, though it had only made me sleepier. I glanced down at the bed, so eager to crawl into it and finally rest.

"And you just go along with anything that bastard says?" my father questioned through gritted teeth, scoffing in disbelief.

"He offered overtime," I challenged tiredly, even if I had nothing to back that up.

"How much?"

I shrugged, aware that I was digging myself deeper into a hole that I couldn't climb out of. He would realize it wasn't the case when the direct deposit hit his account on Friday and it was the usual amount. And yet, in that moment, I couldn't even bring myself to care.

He wasn't supposed to be awake.

Perhaps it was laughable, but that mere fact had me clenching my hands in irritation. Like he'd personally wronged me.

"You don't know?" he scoffed before extending his hand expectantly, shaking it in annoyance when I didn't hand my phone over right away. "Hurry up. I want to check something."

I froze, staring back at him in confusion.

How?

"Mom told you," I forced myself to say, my heart sinking at the realization.

For the briefest of moments, my mom's smiling face crossed my mind, and I could almost recall the nervous giddiness with which she'd handed it back just a few days prior, asserting that returning it back to me was our own little secret. So, why?

"Of course she did. What, you thought she'd keep it from me?" he goaded, wearing a shit-eating grin.

His hand shook impatiently, a silent demand.

"I—I need it," I explained, quietly pleading, even as I slipped it out from my pocket with a shaky hand. "Just... wait."

Though, and perhaps this was the most unsettling part, he didn't seem distraught by the news. There was a suffocating frustration oozing from him, but that was almost expected of someone with his temper. He wasn't upset about the phone, though. At least, not visibly.

"Hand it over," my father ordered before yanking the phone out of my hand, settling back down on the desk and frowning at the screen as he searched through it.

He didn't seem enraged by what had happened, though he'd likely chewed mom out again about spoiling me too much. I couldn't help but wonder if he was secretly relieved... knowing that he wouldn't have to come to his senses and return it himself. Or even wait until I bought another one.

Destroying it was too inconvenient. But handing it back? Having to go against his own actions?

Perhaps this was what he'd wanted all along. Had mom been in on it from the start, or caved somewhere along the way?

"You keep missing days," he pointed out while turning the phone towards me, sneering at the empty calory intake log, which I'd been avoiding like the plague. "You've been stuffing your mouth, haven't you?"

It was phrased like a question, but it felt more like an accusation.

I grimaced, shaking my head. I wouldn't.

"I—I just forgot," I assured him, taking a step back.

I usually stared at every new notification from that damn app and read over it, unable to help myself. The first came in the morning, reminding me to record what I'd had for breakfast. The second was around late afternoon, urging me to submit what I'd eaten for lunch. And the final one happened at night, declaring that it was not too late to restart my streak.

Every three days, it asked me to record my weight. That was tomorrow.

I stood there, frozen, as he scrolled back through the dates, getting progressively more restless as he realized they were all empty.

"I—I didn't have my phone for those," I reminded him, hoping that would lighten the ire in his gaze.

No such luck.

I looked down at the wooden tiles, following the fading grain as it shifted from one tile to the next, barely visible against the cherry wood. The tiles led forward, yet my feet shuffled back.

"You're lazy," he accused while standing up, large hands reaching out to yank me by the arm, dragging me right out the door. I was manhandled out the room and straight into the bathroom, my eyes darting around as he slammed the door shut behind us.

My hands shook against my side as he tapped on the scale with his left foot in passing, both hands reaching into one of the woven baskets on the bathroom counter and pulling out his usual equipment.

"C-can we do this in the morning?" I bargained as my eyes locked with the skinfold caliper on his left hand, his right hand settling the tailor's tape atop the counter before he stepped closer. "Dad... I—I'm tired."

"Take a piss," he ordered while fetching the notebook he kept in the left drawer under the sink, which had significant wear from years of use. He was not even looking at me as he set the notebook down and fiddled with the black device, furrowing his eyebrows while adjusting it.

"I don't want to."

He glared up at me. A single, venomous glare before setting the caliper back down. "I'm not asking you."

Consistency.

Recording fat percentage focused on consistency. Do it on a specific day. Go through the same routine beats before recording from the same sites on the right side of the body. It was methodical, unchanging.

I couldn't understand why we were doing it now... on a random Monday night.

"Why now?"

"Because I want to," he retorted. "You don't think I've noticed how much you've been slacking off?"

"Dad."

"Take off your shirt."

We had a scale that could measure fat, but he didn't trust the numbers. They shifted too much before settling on one. They were not reliable enough to his liking. He had to do it himself or the numbers wouldn't count.

"I—I did already," I explained as he roughly tugged on my shirt, demanding me to remove it. "I'm tired. Can't I—?"

I peered up to meet a stoic, cold expression. "I won't ask again."

"I'm tired."

I was met with silence, yet he stepped forward menacingly.

And so, I lifted my shirt, shuddering as rough hands forced the shirt over my head, and then crumpled them into my hand, shoving me back and out of the way.

"You've been slacking off," my father scolded, his hands grazing across my torso as he forced the shirt out of my hands, smacking my shielding hands away from my waist until they were limply resting at my sides. "You've lost muscle mass. I can already tell."

I recoiled from the coldness of his harsh fingertips, trying to step away from his touch. "I—I don't want to ..."

The hit wasn't unexpected, though I still flinched as he smacked me across the face with the back of his hand. I recoiled, raising my hand to my jaw and just standing still, processing the stinging ache.

"See? You've lost muscle tone," he grumbled then, not even acknowledging the hit. Not even looking me in the eyes. He just continued glaring down while roughly squeezing my biceps, calloused hands manhandling me as he inspected my arms, chest, thighs... I wanted to throw up. To recoil.

Anything to get away.

Still, I didn't move an inch. I didn't say anything either, aware of what would happen if I did. All I could do was watch his judgmental eyes as he yanked me to the right and picked the caliper back up.

I peered back numbly as he started with the site along my triceps. His fingers pinched down methodically half-way down the back of my arm before bringing the caliper up to my flesh, along the vertical fold he'd created, silently measuring the first of seven sites.

I stood there tensely as he pulled away to write down the number, restlessly waiting for it to end.

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A/N: Thanks for your patience. This chapter was tedious to write, to say the least. Sigh.