Short story part 2

Im starting to know where its all going now...Second installment.

I recoiled for a moment, clicked her fingers and I was gone. For now I wouldn't be back. I was now standing in my mothers front room, I guessed the late 1970s if the gaudy orange flowered curtains and the tan bean bag chair that had seen better days were anything to go by. I tentatively looked around and saw the room through the eyes of my 7 year old self. From the kitchen I could hear the kettle boiling, the radio blasting out Bonnie Tyler's its a heartache. My mother singing quietly along. Upstairs I caught the familiar sound of my father snoring, and suddenly none. Silence. I heard my mother turn the radio down, and remembered how she always did that if she though she had awoken him. Hoping to get 20 minutes more reprieve. No such luck. The sound of his two feet hitting the floor.  The sound of the plates been snatched out of the cupboard and a meal hurriedly dished out.

The living room door opened and I saw the face of my father for the first time in 4 years. Younger here, less lined, fuller face, thicker head of hair. He stared at me and shook his head, looking confused.  He walks slowly to me holds his freckled hand out and with one finger runs the tip down my cheek, I mistake it for affection. The finger follows my chin, down to my neck. His finger rests at the gash across my neck and after pausing he pushes the finger inside the wound. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt me at all. As I stare into my fathers eyes I want to tell him so much. I have a lifetime of words I need to share with him. As he gently pulls his finger from my neck my mother enters the room with two plates of rissoles, potatoes and garden peas and a bottle of daddies brown sauce tucked under her arm. She also fixes her look on me for a moment, just enough time to look straight into me and at the same time through me. I hear her sigh and  she sets the plates down. She hurries back into the kitchen for the plate of sliced white bread. As I watch her go, my father cups my face in his hands and turns my head to face his. Pulls me close so our noses nearly touch. He whispers in a voice that doesn't sound like his  "Its only a flesh wound love".