"AAARGH!" I hurled my backpack against the wall in a frustrated scream. Then I started punching the wall over and over again...
...until I finally collapsed in bed, panting in exhaustion. My knuckles were stinging painfully. My eyes strayed to the poster on the wall.
Daddy and his bandmates...
"I hate you," I breathed before falling asleep...
---//---
"Daddy!"
"Hi, Baby." A lot of my childhood with him was filled with his long stay at home (which was good) and departure in turns. I used to cry when he had to go on a tour with his band, not wanting him to leave. He'd always just smile and calmly pick me up in his arms. Then he'd hug me as he gently rocked me back and forth until I finally fell asleep.
When he was at home, sometimes he'd sing me something nice. Like when I'd woken up from a bad dream one night or had a fever. He'd sounded completely different from when he was on stage, singing - and screaming - with his band. Or when they recorded songs.
Mom had joked about him being two persons in one. I'd always found that weird. With me, his voice was always soft and melodious, soothing. He'd probably done so just to help me sleep.
Now I didn't find that funny at all.
I opened my eyes. My room was already dark. Someone had bandaged my bleeding knuckles while I was asleep. The crack I'd created on the wall had been plastered.
