You’re Not My Real Dad!

“You’re not my real Dad!” I screamed. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

“Well, I’m the closest goddamn thing to a father you’ll ever have, so I can talk to ya how I damn well please!” Stephen said, and he hit me again. The slap of his hand was hard against my cheek and stung. I knew it was turning red.

“Fuck you!” I yelled. “Fuck you, Steve! You’re shit! You’re a terrible fucking person!” And I retreated back into my bedroom and slammed the door in his face.

I’d show him. I’d show him. I went to the closet and dug through the boxes in it. Where was it? Where was it? In the shoebox. In the shoebox. There it was, there it was.

I took the shoebox out of the closet and lifted its contents out of it. So beautiful. I’d spent so long creating it. So many hours. So many countless nights up alone in the darkness of my room, with only the light of my desk lamp to keep me company.

I fished the sewing kit from out of the desk drawer. Took out a shiny metal pin with a plastic red ball atop it.

I stuck the pin into the doll and from the kitchen downstairs I heard Steve scream.

It was going to be a long night. One I enjoyed.

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