Your walking home, sad and afraid, holding a test paper in your hands, a 89%. Considered a good score for most people, but for you if your Dad saw the score, you'd be crying and bleeding by the end of the night because he thinks anything below and 95% Is a bad score, already having many hidden bruises to prove times before.

you reach your front door and you open it, you in caution and quiet, trying hard not to aggravate him in case he already had a bad day— to late. He's already there- always there, looking angry. You scrunch up your shoulders, your knees almost buckling as fear washes over your face. He extends his hand and only says a few words that makes your blood run cold:

Hand me the paper, Guest.