His Little Flower (Felix and Flora)

His Little Flower Chapter 35 (Now) Guns surrounded me and resonated loud sounds. I was clutching my eyes shut. I jolted awake from my dream. There were noises inside the house, too. S**t, did we have a burglar? Well, it’s not like we had much to take. Dishes, maybe? Leftovers? couch to I grabbed a set of keys and tucked them between my fingers, getting up off the investigate. The house was still dark but there was a draft from the open door. The intruder was in the kitchen. 1 sighed and peeped in. “Dad?” He was eating the leftovers in the fridge – some broccoli and some potatoes. “Hey, Flora.” He grunted. He saw the keys fisted in my hands and then back up at me. “Sorry,” I hurriedly kept them on the counter, “I thought you were a burglar or something.” Dad snorted. “What would a burglar take from us?” I shrugged, not wanting to say the wrong thing. Like maybe he would get mad if I implied that we were poor. And he’d say am I not doing enough for you? I guess he did do enough. He contributed to the house, somehow. Sometimes. “Should I make you something?” I asked. “A sandwich, maybe?” “A sandwich would be nice.” I began to assemble a simple sandwich while he scarfed down the vegetables on his plate. Ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese and mustard. That’s how he had always liked his sandwiches. My first time having a ham and cheese sandwich had been here, once we had left Avalon 1/3 NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

Chapter 35 Heights, Before that, I had only ever had fancy arugula or kale sandwiches, or Hannah’s meatball’subs. And my Mom called that peasant food. I couldn’t even imagine my life back then anymore. I handed him a plate with the sandwich, and my Dad smiled at me, He was being so…nice? “I guess I’ll head back to sleep, then.” I told him, “You can leave the dishes, I’ll clean up tomorrow,” “Come sit with me,” he said softly. I just stared at him for a full second. He wanted me to sit with him? Why? Was he mad and wanted to hit me? Was this some kind of ploy to make me think he was being nice to me, and then he would burst into anger like he usually did? “So, how is work?” Oh God, did he know? He knew! He knew. And now I’d be dead and I’d never see Felix again “Good,” I answered hesitantly. He didn’t respond. He continued to eat, slowly chewing while I sat there petrified. Every hair on my body had stood on end. I was shivering, I could feel myself shaking. And I was thinking of all the ways I could defend myself when he finally lunged at me. It was a shame and a s**d move to have kept the keys so far away from my reach. And the knives were in drawers. He finally finished eating, and kept the plate to the side. Dad turned toward me, and I flinched. “I’m sorry, Flora.” I braced myself for the slap. The punch. A shove, Something. He would do this sometimes. He’d be sweet and loving and say some words like I’m sorry” or ‘my pretty girl’ and then he’d do something so violent the contrast would knock the living daylights out of me. I’ll never forget that evening when I was twenty, a pivotal moment that left an indelible mark on my memory. I had lost track of time at work, immersed in the chaos of my part-

2/1 the fly unimare that my ta**s would lead to a heart wrenching confrontation with my was the first one he had hit me. As I gished open the door of our house, I felt a wave of tension in the as a sulficating heavings that greeted me. My father stool in the love ay it living room, his face custorted with anger and suspicion. He was drunk and couldn’t even stand property. He had assumed, omgly, that my lateness was evidence of my wwent with other men behind his back. It always assumed this. Me didn’t waste a moment bette launching into a tirade, huling baseless accusations and dogatory words that cut deeper than any physical blow over could. And then he had slogget me a tight slap across my face and it had made me go dizzy for a second. My heart races, and a familiar feeling of helplessness washed over me. test to explain, to reason with him, to make til understand the truth, but my words were downed out by his unfounded jealousy and rage, He was convinced of my guilt, and in his eves. I had betravest hum. It was as if the love he had once shown me had been replaced by an erwhelming possessiveness and insecurity. The anguish I felt at that moment was unlike any had experienced before. It was a deep, gut wrenching pain caused by the betrayal of trust and the knowledge I had deep down that he would never love me the same again. I couldn’t help but wonder how a person could change so drastically within a matter of moments. My father, who had once been a source of comfort and guidance, had become my tormentor. Oh but I did love him still, I did, I did. He was my father. As I fought back tears and tried to defend my innocence, I also grappled with the realization that I could never truly predict his reactions. It was a stark reminder that my relationship with my father was a like a tightrope walk, fraught with the danger of his unfounded fears and explosive temper.