The Bright Side

Eighteen

My stomach feels like a washing machine that is on the highest setting as I reluctantly drag my feet against the concrete on my way back home.

While Owen was teaching me math, mom had texted me telling me to come home since dad wanted to know where I was.

I'm assuming he came home drunk again.

His best friends are all the different bottles of alcohol.  Each liquid whispering in his ears, "I'll make you feel better...just one more sip..."

And there he goes, falling into the temptation, the desire. The addiction.

Today is quite sunny, making me only stare at the floor to avoid squinting.

If I'm being completely honest, I don't know much of how my parents lives were before they came to America.

I remember when I was very young, occasionally my parents would reveal little moments of their past.

Before my dad became an asshole, he would tell me some fun stories about biking around his town, and doing dangerous things with his cousins.

Except other then that, I don't know anything about his family.  I don't even know the names of his parents.

Same thing with my mother.  She had told me some good moments from her life in Colombia.

She said her mother had owned a little store and she would work there.  I remember her telling me how she would sit outside the storefront on a rocking chair, humming along to the Spanish music coming from the radio in the store.

Except every time I had asked her about her parents, and her siblings, she dismissed me.  She would say, "It's not important."

I have a feeling it is important though.

We all have things from out past that haunt us.  Things we don't share.  Except hopefully my mother will finally be comfortable enough to tell me the truth of her life, one day.

When I was younger I would get slightly annoyed that my parents wouldn't share anything about their life.  I was annoyed that I didn't know my family in Colombia.

Then I realized that perhaps it's for a reason.  A reason that maybe I'd be grateful my parents didn't share, if I found out.

Finally my house comes into my line of vision.

Taking in a deep breath, I prepare myself for what awaits for me behind the front door.

Once I'm inside, I see my father sitting at the table.  An almost empty bottle of beer next to him.

"Hello..." My voice is hushed as I drop my school bag on the floor.

"Where have you been?" He stands up, the chair scratching the floor as it slides outward from behind him.

"I was getting tutored." My face remains straight.

"You're lying.  I know that that's just an excuse." His words are slurring as he walks over to me.

He is so drunk I'm convinced he doesn't even know what he is saying.

"I'm not lying." My hands turn into fist.  My jaw clenches.

"You know...you're such a little bitch. All you do is disrespect me.  Maldita mentirosa." He inches closer to me and I have to look up in order to meet his eyes. (Translation: Damn liar.)

Usually I would stand down to him. Except I'm sick of doing that. Before I could stop myself I let my frustration get the best of me.

"I disrespect you?! You disrespect me! You always call me a whore, a slut, and any other degrading name in the fucking book. You've given me several 'accidental' bruises.  Same with mom.  You're a shitty person and I fucking hate you." My face is probably bright red, and my knuckles are probably white from how tight my hands are clenching.