Chapter 4
He'd expected more of a reaction from his father. Something loud and big, something he'd hoped the neighbours might hear. But Bartemius senior was never partial to impressing his son.
His rage was one of silence.
Bartemius pulled the bone white collar from his neatly pressed black dress shirt. He placed it on the dashboard of the old Suzuki, one hand gripped firmly on the steering wheel. His jaw ticked, he was getting impatient.
“On a Sunday. Of all days, B.J.” his eyes snapped towards his son. Scrutinising.
Barty couldn't suppress his shaky breaths, clenching his fists on his knees.
The car wasn't moving. In fact, they had nowhere to go, seeing as they were already in the garage of their home. Bartemius’s hard gaze kept his son firmly seated in the car and Barty was wary enough of his father to not test his patience and flee.
“What do you want me to do, B.J?” his father said softly, placing both hands on the steering wheel. Barty glanced at them, feeling his own hands start to shake.
“Kiddo. I'm talking to you. What in bloody heaven's name do you want?”
Barty opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a reedy, small voice:
“I don't know.” he could barely hear it over the hum of the A.C. To be honest, he wasn't sure if it really was the A.C. or his ears ringing. Like alarm bells blaring.
Bartemius sighs, throwing his hands in the air.
“Well, you're on the right track to getting yourself kicked from the programme. You know how hard I worked for you to get on there?”
His fists came back down to grasp the steering wheel once more.
Barty flinched, then swallowed a scoff, turning his head to look out the window of the car. The garage was seriously cluttered. He wondered, for a moment, why his father hadn't made him clear it out yet.
“I'm not addicted. To anything.”
After a long beat of tense silence, the car shook with the relief of Bartemius’s weight. Barty expected there to be a bang of metal. A slam or something, but the door closed with the familiar muffled click.
Barty clenched his jaw.
His father's rage has changed, just like everything else in his stupid life.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was low, and the first notification he'd received for hours. His friends knew better than to text on a Sunday, so he had a pretty good idea of who it was before he opened the chat.
He rolled his eyes, cheeks warming up.
angelbaby25
monarch butterfly.
so fucking overrated.
moths are the best.
17:14
cakedupjollywanger is typing…