Paul slid the plate down in front on me.
“Eat,” he said in his gruff voice.
I looked up at him. The look of hatred beaming out of my eyes.
“No,” I replied.
“Eat,” he said again. His voice rising.
“No,” I replied again. Trying to match the serve he had just presented me.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.
I locked eyes with him and reached out for the plate.
A winning smile gleaned over his lips.
I tipped the plate over. It’s contents slipping onto the carpet. His prized carpet, the carpet that meant more to him than anything.
I returned his smile.
He leapt over to me and slapped me hard across my face. The force was so strong that he knocked me out of my seat.
My face landed right into the brown puddle of gravy and potatoes.
“Eat,” he said again. His frame looming over me.
I opened my mouth to say no again, but his hand came behind the back of my neck and he smashed my face into the food.
“Eat,” he roared at me.
I could feel the tears burning in the corner of my eyes.
So I did what he asked, I complied.
I lay on the floor, refusing to cry and ate the roast dinner off the carpet.
Bits of lint and dirt coated the roast beef and potatoes, but I ate every morsel.
With every bite I took, I plotted how I was going to end him, how I would kill him. I would be the winner in this showdown, not him.