My father punched him in the jaw, sending him to the floor again. "It's OK. Cut me, do it. Just please don't hit Jake anymore, please!" I begged, crying and looking at my father pleadingly.
Surprisingly, he put the knife in my hand. I had the urge to stab him with it, but he had hold of my wrist so I couldn't. He grabbed Jake's ball from the counter and held it still. "Burst it," he ordered. I shook my head quickly. Jake loved this ball, it was his birthday present from me, I had saved my allowance for two months to buy it for him. "Burst it," he repeated in his cold voice. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as it blew across my face; the smell of it turned my stomach.
