It was a gradual process, one that’s not complete, even now. It started with his mouth - it lost the ability to smile.
Next came his eyes. They darkened, transforming from a clear gray to a lifeless ash. No longer would they light up, brightening the room with them. Instead, they turned red, scarlet vines trickling towards his corneas, begging for a permanent home. They had gotten their wish.
After the eyes came the cloud. The cloud of gloom. The cloud was constantly overcast, lazily following my father around, sucking up joy like a fathomless vacuum.
When the cloud came, need left; the need for clean clothes, washed dishes, made beds, and swept floors. All of that became my responsibility, solely because I was the only one to do it.
But one need remained, even grew stronger, filling my father’s mind with corruption and contempt. That was the need to drink.
It started out innocent enough. Just enough to take the edge off, he would tell me. I didn’t know how long or how sharp the edge was, only that it increased, escalated, and intensified. Soon the entire house was saturated with the smell of alcohol.
It was a heavy burden to bear at such a young age.
Rare became the days that my father was sober; rather, he spent his days nursing a hangover and working a bare minimum, simply enough to get by. His nights were regularly spent sprawled out on the couch, empty beer bottles spread out before him, his mind nothing more than drunken stupor.
It was amazingly horrific how a mere liquid was enough to make even the most respectable of men commit moral crimes so vile, a deranged killer would hesitate before committing them.
It was a year after the divorce; I was fourteen at the time. It had become custom to, once Father was passed out on the living room floor, clear away the beer bottles and wipe the bile from his mouth. If it weren’t for me, he would have long since died, choking on his own vomit.
Except for that night, I had misjudged. He had not fully fallen unconscious. When I knelt down beside him, he reached out. He touched me. In places he shouldn’t have dared.
That night, part of my soul died.
Tonight it happened again, not to my surprise. By now I am used to it, but the thought still brings shivers up and down my spine, and makes me dread nightfall. It terrifies me.
As usual, I sneak into the corner and sit, waiting for his intoxicated form to fall silent and motionless. For an hour I sit there, listening to the hopeless sobs wracking his body.
Eventually an eerie stillness falls over the room, and I know that I have survived another night. I slip into my bedroom and take clean pajamas from my dresser. I clothe myself and crawl into my bed. I don’t bother taking a shower; I have learned that no matter how many showers I take, how hard I scrub, I will never again feel truly clean.
As I lay in bed, I tremble, praying for morning to come. It feels like the night will never leave, but will instead haunt me, keeping me forever in danger. In danger of my father.
Soundless tears stream down my cheeks. Morning will come. It always does, eventually.
Most nights that single thought is the only keeping me from taking a knife to my wrist, or from downing an entire bottle of Father’s meds. Some nights I come so close, but then light shines through the window. If ever we were to have an eclipse, I’m not sure I would live to see morning.
More than once I’ve thought about sneaking Father’s beer, just enough to take away the pain. Just enough to take the edge off…
But I can’t. I can’t sink to his level. One drink, that’s all it takes to form an addiction. If I started, then I’d never stop. Just like Father. And I can’t make the same mistakes that he did.
When finally the sun does come, I get out of bed. I haven’t slept at all. I put on fresh clothes and pull back my hair in a weak attempt to look presentable.
It’s only six, and normally I would clean up after Father - morning is the only safe time to do this. But glancing at Father lying there in his own filth disgusts me, more than it usually does. I can’t stand even looking at him. I grab my schoolbooks and head out the door, wasting no time.
Getting into the crisp, cool air helps some, though I can’t help feeling watched. As I walk along the streets, always staying on the sidewalks, paranoia sets in. I drop my head and stare at my feet, and tuck my books to my chest. My heart pounds against them.
A hand touches my elbow and I jerk away. I look to see Brent Dean, a boy from my class.
“Kiara, are you okay?” he asks, worry written plainly on his face,
“Um… yeah,” I say, trying to relax my pulse. “I just, um, didn’t hear you coming.”
He raises his eyebrows, but goes along with it. He walks beside me as I make my way to the bus stop.
“So…” he says, attempting to break the awkward silence. “Why are you here so early?”
Obviously I can’t tell him the real reason, so instead I deflect the question. “Why are you?”
This is the right thing to say. Brent launches into a one-sided conversation about how his baby sister had a fever and wouldn’t stop screaming and how his little brother was in a phase where he lodged anything small enough into his nose.
“I just had to get out,” says Brent. “I needed air.”
Air. Something so simple, so mundane. Yet, it is so hard to get and people have to constantly search new sources for it. We had both gone looking for it. It’s hard to imagine I have anything in common with him. Basic need. But the similarities stop there.
As we walk around the block because there’s time to kill before the bus comes, Brent continues to talk. About what, I can’t tell you. I tune him out, occasionally nodding or agreeing with whatever the topic is whenever my mind registers it’s the right moment.
A hand touches my arm. I jump.
“Kiara?”
“Um… what were you saying?” I ask, praying my heartbeat is only echoing through my head and not his.
“I was wondering…” He hesitates. “I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight. Maybe go see a movie?”
From what I know about Brent, he is kind, caring, gets good grades, is never in trouble with the teachers, and rarely gets grounded. But can I trust him? I can’t take the risk.
“I can’t,” I say meekly. “I, um, I’m going to my mother’s tonight. She gets me every other weekend.”
“Oh,” he says. He looks genuinely disappointed. “Maybe another time.”
“Maybe,” I say. Maybe not. I can‘t, not really. There is just too much that could go wrong. Too much of a chance that it could end badly.
I’m spared from an uncomfortable silence by the rumble of an engine. We are almost to the bus stop and by the time we get there the big yellow bus is waiting for us.
I step on first and walk about halfway back. I sit down and slide to the window, placing my books beside me, nonverbally telling everyone that, No, you may not sit by me.
Brent walks past me and out of the corner of my eye I see rejection written on his face. I would feel worse, but I wasn’t lying; I really am going to my mother’s tonight.
I can feel a slight headache forming so I lean my head against the cool window and squeeze my eyes shut.
Just make it 'till tonight, I tell myself. Then it’ll be okay. I tell myself this every other Friday. Mom will make it okay.
…
After school, I walk through the door. I packed yesterday, so my bags are by the door and I’m ready to go. Usually Father waits for me on days like these. But he isn’t today.
“Dad,” I call cautiously. “Dad, it’s time to go to Mom’s. Dad?”
Walking into the living room, I see him. Father’s lying on the floor where I had left him. He hadn’t gone to work. Father mumbles something unintelligible and groggily sits up.
“Ki, tha’ you?” His words are slurred heavily.
I gulp. “Dad, it’s time to go to Mom’s.”
“No’ now, Ki,” he says, standing up, almost falling over. He walks over to me and grabs my arm so hard I can’t pull away.
…
I sit against the wall, knees against my chest. Tremors wrack my body as I cry silently. A dull ringing sounds in my head. It takes me a few seconds to realize that it isn’t me, but the phone, for maybe the fifth time tonight.
Apparently unable to ignore it any longer, Father stumbles over to the cordless handheld and presses a button. But not the talk button, the speaker one, on accident I assume.
“Hello?” I don’t know how he does it, but even so filled with alcohol, unless he reaches a certain point, he can make his voice sound normal, almost reassuring if he so desires.
“Gary, it’s Kristine.” My mother. “Where have you been? Kiara was supposed to be here an hour ago. Why haven’t you picked up the phone?”
You can hear the strain in her voice, like she knows something’s not right.
“An hour?” Father says. “Wow, time’s slipped away. I picked up Kiara from school and we went for an early supper, that’s all. We’re just getting back now.”
How can someone so wasted come up with such a reasonable answer? It was a gift, a gift that he could function while drunk. Of course, it came not without practice.
“Well, you should have called. But you’re coming now?” Her voice hasn’t relaxed, as Father’s calm demeanor should have made it. Instead, it’s become more tense.
“We’re coming now,” he agrees. “We’ll be there in an hour.” He hangs up.
…
And it’s an hour later that we pull onto Mom’s long, gravel driveway. It probably was very stupid to get in a car with Father, who is still half-drunk, but almost anything is better than staying at that place.
By the time Mom’s house is in view, we are within ten yards of it and Father has stopped the car.
He never comes in and rarely drives closer. The only communication between my parents is my mom making sure that I arrive at her house on time.
I get out of the car, dragging my backpack behind me. As soon as I slam the car door, a sigh of relief comes over me.
Finally, I’m here. Now it’s going to be okay. Mom’s going to make it all okay.
I walk through the front door to be greeted by the scent of vanilla and the tongue of her black lab, Nellie.
“Hey, girl,” I say, scratching her under her collar, just how she likes it. “Mom,” I call out, walking further into my real home. “I’m home.”
“Hey, honey,” Mom says, rushing in and enveloping me in a hug. Pulling away, she says, “You hungry? I made lasagna.” Se smiles at me, her nice, warm, caring mom smile. I love that smile.
“Sure.” I smile back.
She walks to the kitchen while I head to the dining room.
I sit down at the table and breathe, in, out, in, out, because I can, because I don’t have to look over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure my drunk father hasn’t followed me into the room, because I don’t have to hold back the sobs that Father calls weakness -- something he knows so much about -- because I don’t have to hold my breathe and tip toe around my own house for a constant, never ending fear that just won’t go away…
Because of you, I think to my father bitterly. I am afraid because of you.
Tears threaten to spill over and my breathing grows uneven.
Stop, I tell myself. This is Mom’s house. We don’t cry at Mom’s house. We don’t think about those things at Mom’s house. Mom’s house is safe. Mom’s going to make it all okay.
How? another side of me says. A realistically pessimist side. How?!
I don’t know… my hopeful side says weakly. I just don’t know…
A single tear. A single tear slides down my cheek and suddenly all the held in tears, all the years of brokenness, all the pain and suffering and sorrow and everything else bursts out in the form of irrepressible weeping. I slide off the chair and, once on the floor, pull my knees to my chest, just like I would at Father’s house.
At Father’s house. Just like at Father’s house…
So much for Mom’s house being safe. I can’t tell which side says this. I’m not sure I have a hopeful side anymore. All I can feel is pain. I’m not sure I can even feel that.
I can hear the tap of slippers against hard floor, so I think that Mom walked in the room, but I’m not sure; everything is blurred by the deluge of tears. My hunch is confirmed, however, when I feel Mom’s warm arms wrap around me, hold me, rock me.
It takes a while for me to calm down, and when I do my eyes are still water-glossed enough that I can’t see clearly, but I can hear Mom’s soft, sweet, comforting voice.
“Honey, what happened?” she asks innocently. “ Honey? Does this have anything to do with why you were late? Does this have to do with your father?” She used her finger to tilt my face towards hers, making us lock eyes. “Honey?” she says this firmly.
The heartache in her voice, simply from seeing my turmoil, it’s enough. Just like the pounding thoughts were enough. And just like the thoughts were enough to make the tears pour out, her voice is enough to make me open my mouth and let it all tumble out, every last bit.
…
~Seven years later~
I pause before the door.
He made my life hell.
His life was hell.
But mine wasn’t. Until he made it that way.
He was drunk.
He made himself drunk.
He was hurting.
He hurt me!
You need to let go.
Which ever side regrets coming here doesn’t have a response. I don’t have a response. Conversations like this occur in my mind on a daily basis, never solving anything, never reaching any conclusion. It’s maddening. Yet I can’t stop it.
I take a deep breath and push open the door, setting my bag down right inside. I need it close to the door, just in case I have to leave in a hurry. I go further into the house, not seeing my father.
“Kiara?” I hear him call. “Kiara, are you out there?”
A shiver runs through me as I force myself to enter his room, the most traumatizing room in the house. But I have to do this. I just have to.
“I’m here, Dad,” I say meekly.
“Kiara.” He smiles at me. His eyes aren’t red and puffy, and he smells like cologne, not alcohol. His room is clean, bed made, clothes in closet, rug vacuumed. It’s not the same as before. Father isn’t the same as before.
“How are you, baby?” he asks.
I flinch when he calls me this. So many - too many - memories threaten to pop up, threaten to swallow my courage and send me running out the door. And if I did that, I wouldn’t look back. I’d never come back.
“I- I’m good, Dad.” I try to smile, but it’s hard. “You look good.” Meaning, You don’t look drunk.
“I feel good,” he says with a slight laugh. Then his face turns serious. “Listen, Ki--”
“Don’t,” I say. “It’s okay.” But it’s not okay and he knows it.
“No, no, it’s not. I- there’s no words to describe how sorry I am. I’m a changed man now, Ki. Can you- can you ever forgive me?”
He looks at me hopefully, tears in his eyes, and I know he regrets it, regrets everything. Tears start to collect in my eyes, too. I don’t wipe them away.
“Oh, Dad. I’ve already tried, Dad, I’ve already tried. I just… I’ve already tried.” I shake my down-turned head, tears spilling.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive him, but for now, well, I’ll just keep trying.
“I’ve already tried,” I whisper.
Spoiler
This is for ForestQueen88's Tear Jerker Song Contest. It's based off of a combination of the songs Angel In Disguise - Pillar and Because Of You - Reba Mcentire and Kelly Clarkson. Mostly I want to know how I did working with such a touchy subject. All comments appreciated.
Well done on catching the reader's attention.
And let us begin!