The crying game

He thunders into the house, his heavy boots stomping in the hallway.
“Where have you been? I was worried.” comes the timid voice from the kitchen.
“Stop asking questions, bitch. And bring me a fucking beer.” His voice is deep and coarse.
A chair is moved in the dining room, scraping on the wooden floors.
The thin figure approaches, hands shaking. They can not twist the top off the bottle.
“Give me that you stupid cow.” smack
His calloused hands connect with the cheekbone. Blood splatters.
“Fuck shit, clean that up.” He raises his fist. “And where’s my fucking food?”
The tiny body fetches the food and a rag.
“Learn to fucking cook, god dammit!” He grabs the frail arm and extinguishes his cigarette on the translucent skin, the marks of past transgressions still visible.
“Yes, fucking what?”
“Yes sir!”
He forks the food into his mouth leaving the meat for last.
“This is good” his eyes soften.
“Tonight you’ll wear those sexy high heels and then you’ll fuck me up the ass like a good little boy.”
“yes dad”

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