Consumed

The door opened revealing Robert and Andrea. Both of them looked angry.

“I’m sorry,” Tammy said to them.

Robert didn’t say anything. He crossed the room towards her in two single steps. He raised his hand, high in the air, and brought it down hard on Tammy’s face causing her to scream in pain.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” hissed Johnny. He leapt off his seat with his fists clenched, as though ready to strike back.

“Stop it!” screamed Andrea from the doorway where she had remained. “It’s not the end of the world. I haven’t started on the meat yet… Nothing’s been wasted. I’m sure I can salvage something.”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Robert.

“He tried to run,” said Tammy — fighting back her tears.

“Rubbish!” shouted her father. “We saw what you did. He hadn’t tried to run and he wouldn’t have either… Not all the time you had a mouthful.” He looked as though he wanted to hit her again. “Or did you do that?” he asked Johnny who was still standing next to him — ready to take his swing.

“Fuck you!” hissed Johnny.

“And where were you last night? Cruising for more cock? You’re an embarrassment.”

“I’m not gay! How many times do I have to keep telling you?”

“Prove it!” Robert spat back. “Prove to me that you’re a man.”

“What?”

Robert grabbed Tammy by the hair and lifted her to her feet. Both Johnny and Andrea screamed for him to stop but he didn’t. He pushed her down on the table and pulled her jeans down using a swift, forceful, movement with his spare hand. “I said prove to me how much of a man you really are,” he hissed — a look of pure hatred and evil burning from his eyes.

Tammy screamed, “Get off! Please! I’m sorry!”

“Ssh,” Robert lifted her head off the table and slammed it back down — stunning her into silence. He turned his attention back to Johnny, “Well, boy, what are you waiting for. Stick her. Come on! Look at that tight, pretty little cunt… Doesn’t that make you hard? Don’t just stare at it… Fuck it!” he demanded. Keeping her head pinned to the table with one hand, he pulled her knickers to one side using the other — revealing her vagina to Johnny.

Johnny screamed at his father. Not from fear but more so out of hatred for his dad. He turned and fled the room hoping that Andrea would talk Robert down from his rage.

“Robert, please…” said Andrea, “you’re scaring us… Please…”

“No balls,” hissed Robert. “And he says he ain’t a faggot?”

“Robert, please…” Andrea continued.

“Shut up, whore. Something inside of you… Something… You did something to make him like that. Something broke him whilst he was cooking in you. Should have fucking stamped on the little shit as soon as you spat him out. Should have. Still should. Do us all a favour. One less mouth to feed.” Using his spare hand, he pulled at his belt until it undid. A quick fumble with the buttons on his dark blue jeans and, seconds later, he released his erection. “Look at this little cunt…” he continued, “have to be a queer not to want to fuck it.”

Tammy squealed in pain as her father pushed himself deep inside her. Andrea turned away, unable to watch what Robert was doing. Robert starting to thrust in and out of his daughter but kept watching Andrea instead, “Remember when we used to do this?” he asked. “Remember what that was like? You feel wet or you still dry as a bone? Need me to spit on it again? The girls… What point is a daughter if not for this? You and your broken cunt… Good for nothing… Dry as a desert. You gonna keep watching or you gonna get dinner sorted? Clean up after what your daughter did? Run along and let me finish teaching her a lesson,” he hissed like a man possessed — thrusting hard with each sentence spat.

Andrea turned and ran from the room in floods of tears. She knew there was no point in trying to talk him down now. She knew that, once in one of his moods, there was no talking him down. You just had to let him get on with what he wanted to do or else feel his wrath too.

* * *

Johnny stormed into the dining room and slammed the door behind him. Without taking the time to look around the room he punched the wall as hard as he could — in his mind the plaster was his father. In his mind the crack in the plaster was a crack in his father’s face. The blood, from his knuckles, also belonged to his dad — in his fragile mind. He hit the wall again. And again. Each punch working out more of his frustration and anger at not being able to stand up to his own father. He knew someone had to. He knew someone had to put him in his place. For the sake of the family. He just wished he were strong enough. He went to swing at the wall again and suddenly froze when something, in the room, caught his eye. Slowly he turned to face the dining room table; a large oak table in the middle of the room with enough chairs, around it, to seat the entire family.