“Don’t get blood on the floor,” she muttered, her voice devoid of empathy. “It’s gross, and I have friends coming over later.”
I tried to breathe through the pounding headache that was blooming behind my eyes, but the auditory landscape was dominated by my father’s echoing rage.
“You’ll transfer your entire salary by tonight,” he said, stepping back but keeping his finger pointed at my face. “Or I’ll make sure you can’t work at all. I’ll call your boss. I’ll tell him you’ve been stealing. Let’s see how fast you lose that precious job of yours.”
Melissa smirked, finally looking up. “He has a point,” she said to Mom, as if discussing the weather. “You can’t just let parasites walk around thinking they have rights. It sends the wrong message.”
They laughed. The three of them. A harmonious chord of cruelty that felt like a private joke I was the punchline of.
