Eric Thomas - Chapter 1: Boiling Point lyrics

I hate you! I wish I could take back the words I said to her that day, but I couldn't. I swear it was not premeditated. If I could only turn back the hands of time, I would have done it differently. I should have sat her down years ago and just talked it out. I should have gotten it out of my system instead of being so secretive about it. I should have told her the day it happened that I felt betrayed and angry, and that I felt as though I couldn't trust her anymore. Why didn't I just tell her? Well, it's too late; I have gone too far. I can't go back and change things now. It is what it is! < < Ring… ring… ring > >. “Hello… hello,” I said as I rolled over in the bed reaching for the phone. “What you still doing in the bed?” Melvin said in a surprised tone. “Wh at? It's Sunday, it's cold, football season is over, and I have the house to myself. Unless you know something I don't, I don't see a reason to get outta bed ! The question is, why are you calling my house so early? Don't you got a girl yet?”, I asked jokingly as I readjusted the covers. “I'm lifting weights and I need someone to spot me,” Melvin replied. “Why didn't you say that in the first place? Give me thirty. I need to hop in the shower real quick and throw some gear on.” I jumped out of the bed, grabbed a pair of all red Lathrup High jogging pants, my red Lathrup hoodie, a pair of socks, a white t-shirt, my underwear, and headed for the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from downstairs. It sounded like someone opening the garage door, but that was impossible. My parents were in Chicago visiting my aunt Wanda. Then I heard loud footsteps moving toward the living room. My heart was pounding so loud I was afraid the intruder could hear it. My adrenaline started to kick in and I tiptoed back into my room, grabbed my baseball bat from under my bed, and headed toward the stairs. With the bat tightly clinched in both hands, I gently walked down each stair trying desperately not to make a sound. As I approached the last step, I turned my body toward the direction where I heard the sound and out of the corner of my eye I saw a large male frame standing in the living room area. I walked slowly toward the figure with the bat at my side, ready to swing and bring whoever it was to the ground. I bent down trying to stay low when suddenly, the image became clear . It was my father. But that could not be, he was supposed to be in Chicago with my mother. I stopped dead in my tracks, did an about face, walked toward the house I told myself, “Party or no party, right or wrong, he wasn't going to put his hands on me again.” I was the only kid on the block still getting whippings in high school. I was 16 and still had to wear long-sleeved shirts to school to hide the bruises on my arm that I got from trying to protect myself from the belt. It actually looked worse than it felt. What hurt the most was the fact that my cla**mates would joke on me about it. When I walk in this house if any one of them says something about me getting a whipping, it's on! As I grabbed the knob on the screen door and walked through the garage into the house, I kept telling myself to relax and act normal. I deliberately went through the garage and not the front door because it gave me a few extra minutes to gather myself. I paused for about 30 seconds to calm down, gain my composure, and practice saying, “What's up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me.” I must have practiced saying, “What up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me,” a million times before I mustered up enough courage to walk into the house, and into the family room to face my parents. As I walked into the family room, the sight of my parents struck fear in my heart. I opened my mouth and all the moisture evaporated and my voice began to crack, “Mrs. Bbbbbbrown, I stuttered, ssssaid you wanted to see me.” “Yes, I talked with your dad yesterday and he said that the steak was missing. Do you know what happened to it? “No ma'am.” “Well, that's strange because your father and I found beer bottles in the backyard and the grill looks like someone cooked steak on it recently. I am going to try this again! Did you have a party here last night?”, she pressed. “Party? No ma'am, I didn't have a party here last night.” I tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult because my mom always knew when I was lying. “Stop lying. Eric, I am so damn sick of you. How could you have a party in my house, eat the groceries your father and I worked for, and have absolute strangers in my house? What in the hell were you thinking?”, she screamed. I didn't say a word; I just stared at her. “Eric, do you hear me talking to you? I asked you a question, what in the hell were you thinking? I want an answer and I want it now!” I didn't flinch, I just stood there with a blank look on my face. “Son, your mother