Damien
“You are a f*****g bastard. You know it, right?” The voice screeched from the rust-streaked house trailer across a row of ranch and little cottages. Recently I colored it to dark blue and silver, the hue I hated the most. Maybe, that's the reason why the paint sprays were bought by the man inside. Mr. George Ashton, my father. “I told you not to come back.” He added.
Boosting a unanimous calmness to my brain, I replied. “I want to know if you are hungry.” I had been asking the same question for half an hour already and he just won't answer. However, I was still not surprised. It had been always like this.
“What a scumbag! How can you still ask me that?” My father shouted. He was in his mid-fifties. The chores that he had in the past years were anywise associated with crime. While
