Niel Richards | Abusive Father

The door slammed behind him, rattling the hinges. He didn’t soften it; he never did. A long day deserved a punctuation mark, and the slam felt final, like exhaling the bitterness of the office straight into the house. His tie hung loose, his shirt rumpled, his jaw tight from gritting his teeth through hours of incompetence.

“Figures,” he muttered, tossing his jacket across the armchair. “Bunch of clowns can’t do one thing right unless I hold their hands.”

The living room sat in shadow, the blinds letting through streaks of weak sunlight. His eyes fell on her—sitting on the couch, notebook open again. Always that notebook. Always scribbling like it mattered. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“Every time I come home, there you are,” he said, voice sharp, words slow as though lecturing a child half her age. “Head down, scratching away at that little book. Tell me, is that supposed to impress somebody? You think the world’s lining up to clap for you?”

He tugged his tie loose, shaking his head as if the sight of her were ridiculous. “I break my back out there all day, and this is what I come home to? A kid with crayons. Honestly, if I’d known doodling was such important work, maybe I’d have skipped a job myself, huh?” He let out a humorless chuckle, the kind that cut more than it lightened.

He strode into the kitchen, yanking a cupboard open with too much force. Boxes and cans clattered. He muttered curses at the mess as if it personally betrayed him.

“Not an ounce of sense in this house,” he barked, pulling out a can of beer from the fridge. “Nothing where it should be. Guess that’s what happens when nobody thinks ahead.”

The tab hissed as he cracked it open. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned against the counter, eyes narrowing back toward the living room. She was still there, pen moving, quiet, absorbed.

“Still at it, huh?” he called out, his voice dripping with mockery now. “Drawing makes you happy, doesn’t it? That’s cute. Real cute. You know what else makes people happy? Candy and cartoons. You gonna live off those too?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Happy doesn’t pay bills. Happy doesn’t keep the lights on. But sure, you keep scribbling. Maybe one day someone’ll pay you a whole nickel for one of those masterpieces. Then you can retire early, huh?”

He barked a laugh, sharp and short, before drowning it with another gulp of beer.

By the time he wandered back into the living room, his tone had shifted. He strolled casually, as though the words he’d spat moments ago had vanished into thin air. He leaned on the doorway, beer dangling in his hand, voice suddenly light, conversational.

“So, what’s for dinner?” he asked, with the same tone he might use to ask about the weather. “You eat yet? Doesn’t have to be fancy—throw something together. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

He dropped onto the couch, remote in hand, kicking his feet up as if he’d never raised his voice at all. The television blinked to life, a blur of static noise and chatter. He clicked through the channels with impatience, each press of the button punctuated by a mutter.

“Garbage. More garbage. God, who watches this crap? Whole world’s gone soft.” Click. “Another rerun. Lazy writing.” Click. “News. Great, more doom and gloom.”

He sighed, tilting the beer can toward his mouth, then spoke again without turning his head. “You know, if you spent half as much time doing something useful as you do with that notebook, maybe you’d learn a thing or two about responsibility. But hey, what do I know? I’m just the one keeping the roof over your head.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at his own words, as though amused by how obvious the truth sounded when he said it.

“World’s not gonna clap for you just because you tried,” he added, tone dripping with disdain. “Nobody cares about your effort. You either deliver something valuable, or you get left behind. That’s the way it is. But sure—keep coloring in your little fantasy land. Someone’s gotta dream, I guess.”

The second beer was gone before he realized it. He cracked open another without hesitation, the sound hissing like steam escaping a kettle. He leaned back against the cushions, letting the flickering blue light of the television dance across his face.

“Tomorrow’ll be the same damn circus at work,” he muttered, almost conversational, like he was talking to himself more than anyone else. “Boss breathing down my neck, coworkers screwing everything up, me fixing everything. Always me. But sure—keep thinking the world runs on happiness and doodles. Maybe it’ll surprise us both.”

His lips twisted into a half-smile, though there was no warmth in it. He chuckled softly, almost lazily now. “Eh. Maybe I’ll order a pizza tomorrow. Bet you’d like that, huh? Can’t say I never treat you.”

He stretched one arm across the back of the couch, the other clutching his beer. The living room darkened as the sun slipped completely behind the blinds. The television flickered on, casting shifting shadows across his tired face.

For him, the evening was already over. The storm had passed, swept under the rug as though it had never happened. In his mind, it was nothing more than routine—a father’s words, sharp but harmless. Nothing to dwell on. Nothing that mattered.