Offside

Shit.

On our way out, the resident doctor, Danielle, and Justin all showed up trying to talk Dad out of it. Obviously, they didn't understand who they were dealing with. No one talks my dad out of anything. No one.

Justin said he'd like to come to the house to meet with me. Dad said over his dead body.

Danielle tried to give him a bunch of paperwork, which he tossed on the floor at her feet.

The other doctor attempted to talk to

him about my condition in general. Dad told him to shut up.

Then his phone rang. It was obviously Doctor Winchester.

“At this point, I'm just not interested,” Dad said, his voice just barely still in control. “I appreciate what you have done for him so far, but I'm not happy with his progress…I know that's what she says, but her opinion is really not holding much weight with me.”

Dad looked pointedly at Danielle.

“Bottom line is, he's going home. Now. I'll be taking care of him from this point forward.”

Dad hung up and turned to me.

“Get going,” he said.

I wheeled myself toward the door, refusing to look at any of the three people who had been taking care of me in various ways since I woke up. It wouldn't do any good, and I just didn't want to deal with it. I made it out to Dad's car without too much difficulty, but once there, I wasn't really sure what to do.

This wasn't something I'd practiced.

Through Dad's bitching, I managed to get myself positioned next to the passenger seat and eventually flopped into the car. Dad grabbed the wheelchair and gave it a forceful shove toward the rehab center doors before he got into the driver's side.

“How will I get into the house?” I asked.

“I already got another chair for you,” he told me.

“But the stairs…”

Dad grumbled under his breath.

“I guess you'll go through the back entrance.”

I hoped the rain hadn't been too bad, because it got muddier than shit out in the back yard.

We sat in silence for a few minutes as Dad maneuvered out of the parking lot, down the street, and onto the highway. I just stared out the window, wishing I hadn't put my phone in the bag behind me or that I had at least kept Nicole's pillow in the front with me.

I was getting tired, and holding myself upright in the seat of the Mercedes wasn't nearly as easy as sitting in the wheelchair or in the hospital bed. We hadn't even been on the road for fifteen minutes yet, and there was probably close to another twenty minutes before we'd get home.

“Now that you are out of there, we're going to get a few things straight,” Dad suddenly piped up.

Whatever discomfort I was feeling physically was overrun by the dread that came over me from his words.

“What things?” I asked quietly.

“The Skye girl is history,” he started. I tried to speak up, but he shushed me. “History. She's not coming anywhere near our house, and you're not getting your phone back. I put up with her shit in the hospital, and I have no more tolerance for that insolent bitch.”

Again, I tried to speak up, but he just started screaming.

“It's her fucking fault you're like this!” he yelled. “She's fucking coddling you, back-talking me, and if I hear one fucking word out of you about it, I will fuck her life up! You hear me?”

My breath was caught in my chest, and I couldn't draw in any air. My hands started to shake, and I tried to grip the edge of the seat for support, but my fingers weren't cooperating. When I didn't answer right away, he backhanded my shoulder, causing me to gasp.