Above us, the front door slams open and shut again. Welcome home, Daddy.
In addition, there are the changes in my boy – whole body going still, all muscles tense, heart beating faster, breathing nearly stopping, head cocked to the side, straining to hear what’s going on upstairs.
If it weren’t for the scent of fear that is pouring off him in waves, he would look like a predator on hunt.
He’ll stay like this for a few minutes. When he hears his bastard of a father going up the stairs to the bedroom, calling for his equally drunken wife, he relaxes and goes on as if nothing ever happened. Denial is all in Xanderland.
However, I can hear the bleeding asshole hitting and raping her until she passes out. One of the moments I hate my superior hearing abilities. Yeah, yeah, I’m evil and I should get off on it, but I don’t. Rape was never my thing. Neither was hitting women – not counting the slayer there. Bleeding gentleman my mother made me. Man of honour and all that crap. Can’t get over my nancy boyish human self sometimes.
Nearly ten minutes have passed and the sound of the heavy working boots on the floor of the living area has not subsided.
The fucker is pacing.
Never did that before. There is this tingling on my neck like a spider climbing around.
The sound of the fridge being opened.
Glass bouncing against glass.
The plop of the beer being opened.
The scent of fear is getting weaker but a new scent is in the mix: resignation.
Something I never smelled before on the whelp.
It creeps me out.
Upstairs I hear the older Harris grasping a new bottle and then he is slowly but steadily coming to the door that is leading to the basement.