I HAD nothing to say to him, yet I wanted to. My heart raced erratically, yet I remained still. I wasn't sure if I was dreaming, or if this was reality.

My father stood at a height of 6'1". His eyes were cold, and they carried bags underneath them. Due to his excessive drinking, his youthful face is no longer present. His hair began to show aging. It was once dark-brown but now it seeped gray.

He leans against the doorframe, arms disapprovingly crossed over his chest. "I'm talkin' to ye, boy." he quips, a slight slur running over his words.

I look down at my hand, which now caressed a glass. I pour water from the sink into it; somehow finding the courage to speak without looking at him. "Hi, Dad."

"What the fuck are ye doin' in me house?" he growls, staggering over towards my direction. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from a distance.

I couldn't tell him the truth, otherwise Bertie would get his ass beat. I slowly took a swig of water, looking at my drunkard of a dad right in the eye.

"Can't a son visit his mum for a couple of days?" I ask simply, swallowing the rest of the beverage. "Ye know, Mum has feelings too, Dad."

"Shut the fuck up, ye twat!" My dad barks. "You..." he slurs, raising a finger in protest. "You're a... You're a bloody disgrace."

"I think the only one who is a disgrace is you, Dad." I reply cooly. "Always drinking... Wasting your time at the bars... While Mum is in bed all day, close to her death." I shrug, my eyes never leaving him. "But, you don't care." I continue. "All ye care about is controlling her. Thank God I let you kick me out," I chuckle, seeing my dad's face become angrier. "Lord knows I would have died following the likes of you."

My dad has had it. He stomps his way towards me. He grabs the back of my neck and pushes me against the wall; pounding it over and over again.

And as he is doing this, the fatal memories come crashing down like a tidal wave. He's done this exact beating before, when I was fifteen and living here.

"You're a piece of shit!"

"Next time ye disrespect me, I'll put a knife through yer bloody skull, boy!"

I am now toppling to the floor. On my knees and ready to break. My vision is now becoming blurry. I look up at my dad, who has now punched me so hard that my nose and mouth are bleeding.

I can hardly stand. Everything was flickering back and forth from the past to present day. Almost like a lightbulb going out.

His hand is now tangled up in my hair and he pulls me off the ground, so now I am staring into his cold, gray eyes.

"Ye better run, boy," he sneers. "because I'm going to get ye," he pushes me against the wall. "and once I 'ave ye I'm going to shank the --"

Just then, I hear a gunshot fire off in the house. My dad falls to his knees, wailing in pain.

I look up to see who shot my dad in the back. My jaw dropped at the sight of who possessed the gun.

It was Amelia, standing by the stairs holding a small nine-milimeter.

...