slightly hilarious. It was just the distraction I needed to release my mind from the gloominess of my impending death, if for only a moment. The warm, fuzzy sensation of love, happiness, and normalcy which flowed between the walls clung to me all the way home. Unfortunately, it disappeared the moment I stepped inside the emptiness of my house, where thick silence seemed to breathe and fester, taking on a life of its own. Sadly, this was something I was growing used to.
Either Dad was on his way home now, or else he’d be working extra late again. I guess that’s a plus of owning your own business—quitting time could be whenever you liked. And apparently, the custom signs and banner quota had more than quadrupled since my mother’s death, meaning Dad worked long hours while I sat home alone in the place that had been my mother’s tomb.
Chapter Six
At 8:57 p.m. Dad finally pulled in the driveway. I’d been curled up on the couch with the TV volume on low, jotting down all the questions I’d thought of to ask Jet, when Dad stumbled in.
For the first time in my life, I witnessed my father drunk.
I closed my notebook, marking my place with my pen, and watched him sway through the front door, oblivious to me.
“ Hi,” I said, when he started toward the kitchen without saying a word.
His bloodshot eyes darted to mine. “Hey, honey,” he slurred with a smile.
My heart began pounding. Was this for real—was my dad seriously standing in front of me plastered ? Shouldn’t our roles have been reversed? I was the one who was seventeen; shouldn’t I be the one coming home drunk, stumbling through the front door after dark?
“ I’m gonna make something to eat; you want something?” he asked, and I was barely able to decipher his words.
“ No.” I shook my head. “Are you drunk ?” A question which didn’t necessarily need to be asked, but I’d asked anyway.
He nodded, continuing to the kitchen. “Yeah, I’d say I am.” He chuckled to himself.
Anger lapped at my insides as I stood. “You could have died driving like this!” I shrieked.
“ Would that have been so bad?” he asked, devoid of emotion as he rummaged through the contents of the fridge. “The best part of me died a long time ago,” he added with more conviction.
My chest tightened, squeezing all the air out of my lungs and clamping off my vocal cords. I knew instantly what he was referring to—my mother’s suicide—and I wasn’t sure which emotion his cold statement stirred most within me: anger or sadness. Anger because the vacant, King of Avoidance father I’d lived with for the past five months had now transformed into a person who chose to drown all his problems with alcohol and his behavior was supposed to be justified? Or sadness because I could relate to what he was feeling completely.
Between the two emotions, anger won. Anger always wins; it’s always the victor over every other emotion known to man. I narrowed my eyes, watching him as he clumsily made himself a sandwich in the kitchen.
“ I miss her, too!” I shouted, stalking into the kitchen. “You’re not the only one!”
He leaned over the countertop, the butter knife he’d been using still clasped in his hand. “I never said I was,” he said in a low voice, closing his eyes and hanging his head.
His broken frame didn’t lessen my anger any; in a twisted way, it intensified it. All I kept thinking was that at least I was finally seeing some form of mild emotion stirring in him, regarding my mother’s suicide.
“ Might as well have.” I pressed further, fueled by rage and pain. “You haven’t talked to me about anything ; you haven’t even acted like you care how I feel about mom killing herself!”
Dad glared at me then, hard, before his butter knife and sandwich both went flying across the kitchen. “What, Rowan? What the hell do you want me to say? That it’s all finally sinking in for me? That your mother took her own life
Either Dad was on his way home now, or else he’d be working extra late again. I guess that’s a plus of owning your own business—quitting time could be whenever you liked. And apparently, the custom signs and banner quota had more than quadrupled since my mother’s death, meaning Dad worked long hours while I sat home alone in the place that had been my mother’s tomb.
Chapter Six
At 8:57 p.m. Dad finally pulled in the driveway. I’d been curled up on the couch with the TV volume on low, jotting down all the questions I’d thought of to ask Jet, when Dad stumbled in.
For the first time in my life, I witnessed my father drunk.
I closed my notebook, marking my place with my pen, and watched him sway through the front door, oblivious to me.
“ Hi,” I said, when he started toward the kitchen without saying a word.
His bloodshot eyes darted to mine. “Hey, honey,” he slurred with a smile.
My heart began pounding. Was this for real—was my dad seriously standing in front of me plastered ? Shouldn’t our roles have been reversed? I was the one who was seventeen; shouldn’t I be the one coming home drunk, stumbling through the front door after dark?
“ I’m gonna make something to eat; you want something?” he asked, and I was barely able to decipher his words.
“ No.” I shook my head. “Are you drunk ?” A question which didn’t necessarily need to be asked, but I’d asked anyway.
He nodded, continuing to the kitchen. “Yeah, I’d say I am.” He chuckled to himself.
Anger lapped at my insides as I stood. “You could have died driving like this!” I shrieked.
“ Would that have been so bad?” he asked, devoid of emotion as he rummaged through the contents of the fridge. “The best part of me died a long time ago,” he added with more conviction.
My chest tightened, squeezing all the air out of my lungs and clamping off my vocal cords. I knew instantly what he was referring to—my mother’s suicide—and I wasn’t sure which emotion his cold statement stirred most within me: anger or sadness. Anger because the vacant, King of Avoidance father I’d lived with for the past five months had now transformed into a person who chose to drown all his problems with alcohol and his behavior was supposed to be justified? Or sadness because I could relate to what he was feeling completely.
Between the two emotions, anger won. Anger always wins; it’s always the victor over every other emotion known to man. I narrowed my eyes, watching him as he clumsily made himself a sandwich in the kitchen.
“ I miss her, too!” I shouted, stalking into the kitchen. “You’re not the only one!”
He leaned over the countertop, the butter knife he’d been using still clasped in his hand. “I never said I was,” he said in a low voice, closing his eyes and hanging his head.
His broken frame didn’t lessen my anger any; in a twisted way, it intensified it. All I kept thinking was that at least I was finally seeing some form of mild emotion stirring in him, regarding my mother’s suicide.
“ Might as well have.” I pressed further, fueled by rage and pain. “You haven’t talked to me about anything ; you haven’t even acted like you care how I feel about mom killing herself!”
Dad glared at me then, hard, before his butter knife and sandwich both went flying across the kitchen. “What, Rowan? What the hell do you want me to say? That it’s all finally sinking in for me? That your mother took her own life
Similar Books
Flourless to Stop Him
Nancy J. Parra
Titans
Victoria Scott
Jaded
Tijan
The Intimate Bond
Brian Fagan
Queen of the Savages - Complete
Lisa Lace
Heirs of the Blade
Adrian Tchaikovsky
Awakening, 2nd edition
Ray N. Kuili
Klickitat
Peter Rock
Songbird
Sydney Logan
Schmerzgrenze
Joachim Bauer