intoxicated- rafe cameron

one

Let's just jump right in, shall we?

I was born here, in the OBX, and I stayed here for maybe a year, possibly two. Though, I don't remember much of my time here because I was so young. After my mom had me, her post-partum depression got so bad she killed herself. Overdose. Then my dad, being the best fucking person ever, signed me up for foster care because he didn't want a child without my mom in the picture. Right when I needed him most, he bailed.

I guess he wasn't up to raising a child all by himself.

Because of this, I was pushed into foster care. I moved around a lot, but the first family I actually stuck with was farther away, so I was moved to this half-ass city on the border of North Carolina and Virginia. And may I say, it fucking sucked ass. It was your typical suburban neighborhood... all the houses looked the same as far as the eye could see. The HOA neighborhood shit and all. The kids there were either goody-two-shoes or moody bitches from the wrong side of the tracks. There was no happy medium. You got one or the other.

Since my life was already a fuck up and so was I, I fell off the rails almost immediately and went totally ballistic. My best friends and I become the "south-siders." I spent every minute with them. We hooked up with strangers, hung out and drank underage, did drugs, participated in drag races... We basically did whatever the fuck we wanted.

And I loved it, but my foster parents, Kristy and Jeff, didn't. On paper, they had the best reputation. Stay-at-home mom, office job dad, and a little white, crusty dog. They decided to foster because they "wanted to make a difference in a kid's life" and because they couldn't have children. 

Like I said, perfect on paper. My foster dad was actually a heavy drinker and would hit his wife. He only hit me a few times, but nothing compared to the way he hit her. I wouldn't say I'm fucked up over the situation, but it certainly left a mark. I have a few tiny scars on my left wrist from his finger nails digging into me when I would get on his nerves.

Even though my foster mom eventually turned to drinking from the bruises and blood, my foster dad ended up being fired and going to rehab, and the constant verbal and physical abuse I was put under, they still saved me. They kept me alive when I was struggling and had no place else to go. In a messed up way, I still love them, even though I probably shouldn't.

When I graduated high school a few months ago (surprisingly), that's when my dad decided he wanted to get me back. This so-called "man" only wants me now that I'm all grown up and there's nothing left he can do to parent me. There's no more fussy baby, bitchy toddler, needy kid, or disobedient teenager. Now I'm just a young adult moving to my rich dad's house (at least I was told they were loaded).

My dad may be a dumb fuck and I may hate him for what he did to me, but at least now I'll have a nice place to live and have everything handed to me. Can't argue with that logic.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"There she is!" I hear as I walk through the front door. I set my few bags down on the wooden floor while a smiling man runs towards me.

My 'dad'.

Hank.

I was expecting him to look rough and not so... put together based on my knowledge and memory of him. He runs into the entryway in a peach-collared shirt and plain dress pants. He's about as tall as me, 5'8" ish. His hair and beard are a mix of blackish-gray. Damn, he certainly wasn't one of those guys who aged like Paul Rudd. 16 years have passed, and they sure took a toll on him.

"How are you?" he asks, his blue eyes bright with excitement.

I nod with my lips in a fine line. "Fine." That's what he had to said after 19 years? Not nice to meet you? Not welcome to our home? Not that I expected much, anyways.