With raw lungs, each breath comes roughly for me. My head spins, but I ask my dad one more time. “How long?” His eyelids open. And his hollow gaze meets mine. “Since Daisy’s birthday on the yacht.” Nausea builds. That was months ago. A lifetime ago. Ryke laughs angrily, which morphs into a scream. He pitches the bottle at the wall, and it shatters, alcohol sliding down the paint. He destroys the nearest bookcase, knocking over paperbacks and tearing apart a shelf. His rage has always been in his fists.
this so feels like a movie in my head. ESPECIALLY this particular scene.
