Where’s my fucking keys?

It’s 2am and I’m sleeping on the sofa. I’m woken by noise. It’s my sister, home from drinking. She bangs cupboard doors loudly, perhaps looking for food. I pretend to be sleeping so I don’t have to talk to her. Finally, she goes to bed.

Next, I’m woken by the sounds of my Dad getting ready for work. It’s morning.

“Where’s my car key!?” he shouts. “My fucking keys!! I left them in the door!”

I sit up on the couch. “I think Lisa might have them,” I say, sleepily.

He violently kicks a bag and shouts, “Fucking bastard!” over and over. This may be the angriest I have ever seen him.

He stomps upstairs and goes into my sister’s room. “Lisa!” he shouts, waking her up. “Where’s my fucking keys, Lisa!? Where’s my fucking keys!?”

Next, I hear him go into my brother’s room. “Adam! Where’s my keys!?”

He comes downstairs, still swearing. I take my door key and open the front door for him. “What fucking good’s that?” he snaps. “I need my fucking car key!”

He stomps upstairs again. I hear Lisa say, “Here, I have them.” She must have picked up the keys when she came in drunk.

My Dad begins to calm down. I return to the sofa and pull the duvet over me. There is a new constrictive feeling of anxiety in my chest.

“Thank you Lisa,” he calls up the stairs, gently, strangely placated. After he leaves, the anxiety in my chest is still there.

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