"It's not as if there's much to cook the way she sobs and sulks in the hall each time we try to take her out."
The words sounded tinny and distant, distorted and slurred. Unaware of what was being said, unaware of what she herself was, Lyndsay's perception bled back into her sense of self. She blinked the eyes she found herself to possess and groaned.
"Lyndsay! Lyndsay are you okay?" A hand heavy with warmth and comfort checked the heat of her forehead, the pulse in her chest, and tentatively stretched out the skin around an eye, causing her to reel back. As she slid herself awkwardly up the bed and into a sitting position, a concerned, bearded face formed out of the mess of colour and shapes in front of her. The world around her steadied, solidified. She could see the splintered doorframe and broken handle of her bedroom door scattered on the floor. Her mother was leaning back, sat atop the drawers Lyndsay used to store her clothes. The models of game characters and items that had been so carefully positioned atop the unit displaced, the pictures and game discs kept safe pushed into disarray unconcernedly by her backside. One arm was wrapped across her front whilst the other lifted up a bottle of beer.
"The little psycho's fine Robert. All I did was pull that stupid helmet off." She waved the hand holding the bottle vaguely towards the floor beside the bed.
"And I told you to wait for her to come out of it." He turned around to scowl at the woman. "You could have done her some serious damage."
"Hardly more than she's already managed to do to me."
Robert's head spun back to Lyndsay with relief as her mother swore angrily. "You ungrateful little bitch. Who do you think pays for all this? Who bought that machine? Who looks after you?" Her voice was rising in pitch and she'd stood up, advancing two steps into the room.
"Bob does. Dad bought me this. I look after myself. And you when you're too drunk to function." Lyndsay sat up straight, staring at her mother defiantly. "I don't know what either of them saw in you." She shifted her eyes to look at Robert who was keeping still, his head slightly bowed, watching her during her mother's outburst. "I don't know what made dad see the light but I know Bob will pretty soon to, and then we'll leave and you'll - "
A loud smack rang through the room.
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"Lyndsay. Enough." Robert had started, surprised to see his hand where her face had been, but drew himself up, face flushing as he rose to stand above her. "I'm sorry. Deeply. I didn't mean to do that. But you're to show your mother some respect." He sounded hollow. Voice flat. Behind him, adding fury to the betrayal and tears in Lyndsay's eyes, her mother stood with a drunken, wet-eyed smile. Robert walked across to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her from the room. At the broken door he turned back to Lyndsay. "Again, I'm sorry, and I'll of course fix this for you, tomorrow when Dr. Mary visits." He looked down the hallway where her mother had wandered off. "And I know it's rough but you should be kinder to Lola. There's a lot going on you don't understand," he held up a hand cutting off her outburst as she started. "That you don't know then. She isn't coping well. It's not fair on you, but you're in your twenties now, and you need to learn to think before you speak. You can't keep sniping at each other, no matter who's in the wrong. It's a lot to ask I know but please, if not for Lola's sake then for mine, please, be a little kinder to her." His voice sounded off, slightly cracked. "Whoo." He rubbed the back of his hand across his face as he turned around. "Boy. I'm sleepy huh? Time for bed. Goodnight Lyndz." He pulled her door to without looking back and made his way down the hall.
Rising from the bed, mind now clear once again, largely due to the unexpected slap, Lyndsay stood and moved to the door. Bob had only ever hit her once before that she could remember, in all of the thirteen years she'd been his step-daughter. She straightened a photo of them both together, taken on her nineteenth birthday, her arms around his neck as she kissed his cheek, he blushing in the heat, arm around her shoulders as they stopped mid-run in the park, his shirt open loose to his toned stomach.
After tidying up the stacks of VR games, models and photos she pushed the door, making sure it was closed as best it could be. She could hear him talking to her mother, soothing her, kissing her. She growled to herself, under her breath and at the back of her throat. The sounds of intimacy between them sickened her. Her mother was in her late thirties, Bob a few years older. He was great. She loved him. Appreciated him. But he was a part of why she hated her mother. Too young to realise at the time, now she was older she resented her mother even more, sure she had pushed her father away to be with Bob. They'd gotten together almost immediately after the divorce. Worse, beyond intermittent holidays and birthdays she had hardly seen her real father, mostly talking to him over the phone; even then she was always supervised, her mother keeping watch, eyes narrowed, barely containing her loathing and disgust.
People can make movies and games more believable than real life, yet she can't even pretend dad and me are anything other than mistakes. Her urge to game drowned out by the self-pity and melancholy that now carried her up like a swimmer on the crest of a wave, Lyndsay threw herself onto her bed. Pushing her hand down the side, flush to the wall, she pulled out a small zipped case. She sat up with a smile, leaning back and sliding off her leggings as she exhaled in anticipation.