"Couldn't have been the simple answer"
Note: In response to this meme
He hadn't said anything the first dozen or so times in the past eight weeks that Samantha had come home and thrown her muddy and blood-spattered clothes into the wash. She'd always been just a wee bit like him while growing up. She'd come home nails caked with dirt after a whole day spent playing outside, with the boys no less. Erik had thought it would've changed a bit when she'd finally hit puberty and the long slender limbs of her younger days gave way to graceful curves that he'd seen more than one boy stop to gawk at on numerous occasions. But no, his little girl was just as much a tom boy as ever, even now at the troubling edge of seventeen; so he thought nothing of the tattered clothes and the caked in stains. He would just pre-treat with some Spray n Wash and go on his merry way. At least he did until she started coming home with bruises running up and down her arms. Bruises, which were dark blue black the night before, that she seemed to do a damn fine job making disappear come morning.
It took him another two weeks to read up on books about physical abuse. Erik hadn't thought that that boy, scrawny little guy named Miller, could harm a fly. He was afterall thin like a sheet of paper and barely 5'7" with his shoes on, but if he had been hurting Erik's baby girl, well there'd be hell to pay. Erik hadn't shot a rifle in a long time, but if it came down to being the homicidal dad, he'd do it. Repeatedly if necessary.
Erik sat in silence in his favorite recliner in the pitch black of the living room, waiting patiently for Samantha to come home from her date. It was late. Later than usual even, but she had called. Left a hurried voicemail telling him not to worry and that she'd be home as soon as the movie was over. It sounded like there was some action flick going on in the background, so he hadn't bothered to call back, but still he'd stayed up to see her return. The door squeaked as it was pulled ajar, and a muttered 'shit' signaled Samanthat's arrival.
She tiptoed through the kitchen, grabbing a frozen bag of peas and headed into the living room all set to ice down the massive black eye that she could only hope would be gone by morning. Slayer healing or not, she'd had to learn pretty quick that concealer was her friend. She half-stumbled, half-limped her way to the recliner that sat in the corner. Samantha yelped as she realized too late that the chair was already occupied. Her father's arms wrapped tight around her. She knew she could escape, but well, that would just make things worse. With a quiet click, a lamp comes on and Sam is bombarded with the stern face of her very upset father.
"Sammy? Start talking. Don't lie either."
Hours later, Erik sat, still in that chair from before, wringing his hands. The story had sounded unfathomable, something out of a novel or a tv show, but the broken side table stood testament to the validity of Samantha's tale. It had been broken clean through, and while Sammy was strong for her size, she shouldn't have been that strong, normally. He almost wished it'd just been her boyfriend knocking her around. At least then he'd know what to do. For now there was another load of laundry to be done. Tomorrow he would have to go pick up more Spray n Wash.
He hadn't said anything the first dozen or so times in the past eight weeks that Samantha had come home and thrown her muddy and blood-spattered clothes into the wash. She'd always been just a wee bit like him while growing up. She'd come home nails caked with dirt after a whole day spent playing outside, with the boys no less. Erik had thought it would've changed a bit when she'd finally hit puberty and the long slender limbs of her younger days gave way to graceful curves that he'd seen more than one boy stop to gawk at on numerous occasions. But no, his little girl was just as much a tom boy as ever, even now at the troubling edge of seventeen; so he thought nothing of the tattered clothes and the caked in stains. He would just pre-treat with some Spray n Wash and go on his merry way. At least he did until she started coming home with bruises running up and down her arms. Bruises, which were dark blue black the night before, that she seemed to do a damn fine job making disappear come morning.
It took him another two weeks to read up on books about physical abuse. Erik hadn't thought that that boy, scrawny little guy named Miller, could harm a fly. He was afterall thin like a sheet of paper and barely 5'7" with his shoes on, but if he had been hurting Erik's baby girl, well there'd be hell to pay. Erik hadn't shot a rifle in a long time, but if it came down to being the homicidal dad, he'd do it. Repeatedly if necessary.
Erik sat in silence in his favorite recliner in the pitch black of the living room, waiting patiently for Samantha to come home from her date. It was late. Later than usual even, but she had called. Left a hurried voicemail telling him not to worry and that she'd be home as soon as the movie was over. It sounded like there was some action flick going on in the background, so he hadn't bothered to call back, but still he'd stayed up to see her return. The door squeaked as it was pulled ajar, and a muttered 'shit' signaled Samanthat's arrival.
She tiptoed through the kitchen, grabbing a frozen bag of peas and headed into the living room all set to ice down the massive black eye that she could only hope would be gone by morning. Slayer healing or not, she'd had to learn pretty quick that concealer was her friend. She half-stumbled, half-limped her way to the recliner that sat in the corner. Samantha yelped as she realized too late that the chair was already occupied. Her father's arms wrapped tight around her. She knew she could escape, but well, that would just make things worse. With a quiet click, a lamp comes on and Sam is bombarded with the stern face of her very upset father.
"Sammy? Start talking. Don't lie either."
Hours later, Erik sat, still in that chair from before, wringing his hands. The story had sounded unfathomable, something out of a novel or a tv show, but the broken side table stood testament to the validity of Samantha's tale. It had been broken clean through, and while Sammy was strong for her size, she shouldn't have been that strong, normally. He almost wished it'd just been her boyfriend knocking her around. At least then he'd know what to do. For now there was another load of laundry to be done. Tomorrow he would have to go pick up more Spray n Wash.