TW: Mentions of domestic violence (verbal and physical), fatphobia, mental illness, self-injurious behavior (eating disorders), etc. Proceed at your own risk.

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-Bennett-

Their knocking was easily distinguishable. One was preceded by harsh stomps and followed by a single knock, which always devolved into the merciless pounding of a clenched fist against hollow wood. The other was quiet and wary... almost unwilling.

I always still heard it, nevertheless, even if only by chance.

"Yeah, mom?" I called out upon hearing the soft knock on the door, forcing a meager smile as my mother peered into the room with a warm bowl of food in hand. I glimpsed at the wisps of steam as they rose up and waved from the teal bowl.

"I figured you were busy studying," she mentioned while walking in, placing the steaming meal on the corner of my desk. There was a light ring on the wood permanently ingrained on my desk which served as a guide. I'd tried to buy a coaster to place over it once, only to misplace it within a few days.

"Oh. You should have called me down," I replied quietly.

My mom shook her head, smiling softly. "You only ever get home this early when you have exams coming up." She didn't say it accusingly, but I couldn't help but wince apologetically in response.

I nodded my head slowly, tilting back my head as she reached down to press a soft kiss against my forehead, her tender hands affectionately brushing my hair back.

"You didn't eat already, did you?" she pondered aloud, worriedly searching my face. "Your plate from yesterday is still in the fridge too."

"A few of my co-workers wanted to go out for dinner after work yesterday," I lied, because how else could I explain that a stranger bought me food in the middle of the night after I willingly got into his car? It sounded so reckless out of context.

"How about today?"

"No, note yet; I've been studying all day. Thank you, mom," I offered in response, carefully grabbing the bowl and dutifully placing it in front of me. "It looks delicious. I really—I should really get back to studying, though."

My mother frowned, looking at me like she wanted to say something else before sighing to herself. "Let me know if you want more, okay? There's still half a pot left," she assured me before heading back downstairs. There were always leftovers.

I turned to stare at the wisping steam once more as it rose up and dissipated into the air, rubbing at my temple while pointedly glaring at the white jasmine rice and mixture of potatoes, vegetables, and chicken stew. The earthy, thick scent of tomatoes and yellow chili pepper was familiar as it seeped from the bowl.

I picked up the fork and tiredly dug across the edge of the bowl, digging up some of the rice onto my fork before letting it fall. It was unsurprisingly easy to let go, even if my stomach growled in protest.

"I will... later," I murmured under my breath before leaning down to inhale the sweet aroma. It was probably good. It'd been good for so long, comforting in the way nothing else had ever been. But that was back then, so many years ago that I could hardly remember.

I glared at the bowl guardedly, piercing the fork through one of the pieces of chicken before leaving it standing there. Then, I moved the bowl back to cover the light ring on the corner of my desk, pensively considering my options before focusing back on my laptop screen. It'd totally slipped my mind earlier that I did, in fact, have a few writing assignments due soon.

"You coddle him too much!" an agitated, disembodied voice suddenly hollered from downstairs. "I'm right! You know I'm right!"

I flinched at the sudden slamming of walls and shattering of glass that ensued, glancing back at my door just in time to hear the approaching footsteps up the stairs. The intrusive thought to lock the door swirled around in my mind, but I pushed it aside.

I recoiled as soon as the knock started, fully turning towards the chair by the time the hammering of his clenched fist commenced and died out. My father swung the door open with a growl, the metal doorknob further bruising the dented wall behind it out of sheer force.

"Don't lock the damn door," he demanded before banging the side of his fist against the wood once more. "This is my house, understood?"

"It wasn't—"

"You think I'm stupid?" he asked while stalking forward, shoving me back down onto the seat when I tried to stand up and create some distance between us. "What are you going to do, huh?"

I sat rooted in place, forcing myself to meet his gaze lest he scolded me for ignoring him as well. There was an ominous, vermilion undertone to his dark brown eyes, a deep glint that reminded me so viscerally of unfulfilled spite in its rawest form. There was also the stench of alcohol seeping from him.

"Why are you forcing your mother to bring you shit upstairs? You're grown," he yelled accusingly.

"I—sorry. I'm—"

"Don't talk back to me, you little shit." He snatched the bowl from the desk, scowling at the untouched food before recklessly launching it against the wall. "You're nineteen already, but you still like having your mother slaving away for you, huh?"

I stared at the mess of rice and red juices splattered across the stark white wall, bright stains decorated with bits of sliced tomatoes and other vegetables I couldn't quite make out. I watched as a small chunk of tender chicken clung to the wall, unable to tear my eyes away from the mess as it fell victim to gravity. I could feel my own body growing heavier, my mind suddenly so hazy with a fury of conflicting emotions.

A harsh, calloused hand gripped my face, forcing me to look up as my father towered over me. "Look at me when I'm fucking talking to you," he glowered threateningly, his eyes burning with indignation. "How many times have I told you?"

"I'm sorry," I blurted out in response, somehow able to hold his gaze for long enough to catch the dissatisfaction there. The words spilled out of me despite the tightness in my throat.

"Give me your fucking phone," he ordered, releasing my face with a bitter shove.

I frowned, pressing myself back against the seat. "I... I need—"

The words died in my mouth as the back of his hand smashed against my face. I clenched my jaw while cowering away from him, pulling the phone out of my pocket, and handing it over.

I watched silently as he reached over, slammed my laptop shut, and picked it up as well.

I felt the sudden, reckless urge to rip the electronics from his hand. I wouldn't be able to buy replacements anytime soon, not when I was barely able to cover rent and the other bills he had tasked me with were drilling into the little savings I had left. I could barely afford to exist as it was. But it all died in my mouth, drowning in a familiarly bitter, metallic aftertaste.

It wouldn't change anything. He'd probably only remind me that I didn't actually care about helping out... or pulling my weight around here. That I was selfish and disrespectful for bringing it up at all. After all, it was the least I could do after being a financial burden for so many years.

It was only right. It was only fair.

"You think I give a fuck if you paid for any of this shit? You're living under my roof," my father yelled down at me... as if he were reading my mind, disgusting specks of his saliva splattering across my face.

"I was working on an assignment," I mumbled while wiping at my face, flinching back when he narrowed his eyes.

"Keep talking back and I'll—" he exhaled sharply. "You must think I'm an asshole for disciplining you, huh? You don't even realize how much of a piece of shit you really are. Hopefully, when you have kids of your own, you'll finally understand."

I didn't respond; there was nothing I could say that could appease him now.

"I'm talking to you!"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was the purpose of asking for something else to detest?

What did he want from me now?

I tensed up as he tossed my things onto the floor and lunged forward once more, forcing me flush against the chair before gripping a fistful of my hair. He yanked my head back to forcefully meet my gaze. "What? So, you're going to ignore me now? You think you're above me?"

"I—I'm sorry," I whispered, trying to turn my face away only to have it spitefully gripped in place.

"That's all you ever fucking say," my father chided, shaking his head in disbelief. "Do you even know what you're sorry for?"

"I shouldn't have talked back," I muttered through ragged breaths, stifled underneath his weight. "Or locked the door."

"That's it?"

"I—I shouldn't force... m—mom to do things for me. I'm sorry."

He didn't seem satisfied, even if he nodded his head in agreement.

"That's right, you should be sorry. But I guess you've always been that way about food," my father agreed, suddenly cracking a cruel smile. "You still act like such a lazy fat-ass, even now."

I stared at the cheap, cherry red wooden tiles beneath my restless feet. They were beyond worn down by now, a few cracks visible along so many of the planks. Sometimes, I wondered if they would ever lift off the floor and finally break away.

"I'm sorry," I breathed out shakily.

"You're lucky I'm here to keep you in check," he grumbled while pointedly glaring at my body, some of the ire leaving his tone as he reached over and gripped the bottom hem of my shirt and lifted it up, exposing my chest and stomach. "You haven't been doing enough weight training lately."

I desperately tried to suppress the nauseating feeling of discomfort. Still, it only grew more unbearable the longer his cold, harsh hands roughly pinched at my stomach, silently criticizing the loss of definition I'd managed to procure during summer break.

I furrowed my eyebrows, nodding my head in agreement before wincing as he wrapped a hand around my arm and squeezed down. "Too fucking soft. Why did you come home so early when you're getting like this?"

"I—I have exams coming up," I muttered, hoping that would be enough of an explanation. He nodded his head, glaring down with the hardened expression he reserved only for me. I despised it so much.

It always made me feel so exposed... so insignificant and grotesque. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, my fingers itching to rip at my own flesh until there was nothing left for him to stare at.

"How much are you eating?" My dad suddenly asked, gazing over my body with cold, scrutinizing eyes. "Are you taking your supplements?"

I nodded my head, only to panic as he picked up my phone off the ground and unlocked it. I watched his expression go from seriousness to frustration as he scrolled through the past week's daily logs.

"You haven't been logging in everything you're eating," he complained, even though I had. The only thing I hadn't written down was the meal I had with Mason a few nights prior, but...

"I thought—"

"Monday only has a few hundred calories accounted for," my father complained, scrunching up his nose in disgust. "And that wrap they sell at your campus has too much sodium too. Don't eat that shit again."

I slowly nodded my head, apologizing under my breath.

"Are you eating junk food? Is that why you're not logging it in?" he questioned while forcefully gripping my jaw, inspecting my face with a familiar, resentful judgment. "Is that it? Are you being a fat-ass again?"

"No, of course not. I—I must've just forgotten; I'm sorry."

He didn't seem to buy it, but he still let go. I watched as he reached down and picked up my laptop as well. "I'm keeping these for the time being. Maybe that will teach you to respect us," he murmured, yet most of the determination had faded away. "And I better not find out you've been skipping meals again. You know that shit only makes you retain fat."

I wanted to scream, but all the fight had long left my body.

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A/N: Meet the parents.