𝒀𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾 | the punisher
" she's become like you frank. she's sees a threat, she feels the need to eliminate it."
and you know for you i'd bleed myself dry
for you i'd bleed myself dry
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CHAPTER ONE — please open the door
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MY DAD NEVER WOKE ME UP IN THE MORNINGS; THAT WAS ALWAYS A QUIET DEAL BETWEEN ME AND THE SUN. But that fact never made the horrid burning sensation beneath eyes less irritating than the day before. I grumbled incoherent, angry words of nothingness before tossing my right hand over my screwed up face-- hoping it would make somewhat of a difference.
It didn't.
It never did, no matter how many times I had done it.
So I only decide to accept the defeat that had been handed to me by the morning sun before finding the strength to roll out of bed.
The pitchy squeaking from its wooden frame almost sounded as miserable as I felt. Leaving the comfort of my cotton stuffed sheets only became more painful with the distance as I approached the old rickety desk shoved into the furthest corner of my room. Filled with an assortment of supplies and other junk that I had never found the time--or maybe just the productiveness--to move somewhere else.
Hanging off of the very side of the old piece of furniture--a small silver hook, rusted by the almost damaging stretch of time--was my towel and rag. Folded and intentionally placed near my assortment of lotions and body wash. And by assortment I meant vaseline and vanilla scented soap.
I pluck both pieces of cloth from their place on the desk's side, being sure to rummage through one of my cluttered nightstands before finally finding a decent outfit and trudging towards our shared bathroom--but not without sparing a quick glance down the hall. Opposite to how "uppity" he was last night, my father was now peacefully passed on the couch. His silent sleeping form a million times more tolerable than him when he's a wake.
If you ignored the half empty bottle of Hennessy hanging out near the leg go the couch he almost looked like a normal old dad. But there was no stopping the dissapointed sigh that itched to heard.
Silently approaching his unconscious body, I retrieve the glass bottle from its spot next to his limp arm that hung aimlessly from the edge of the couch--as if it were reaching out for more. There wasn't much I could do for him, there never is. I could only wish that this hadn't become something I was familiar with. That I hadn't memorized a specific spot in the fridge where I placed every bottle of forgotten alcohol for the past 7 years. But wishes were only something you silently hoped for. And hope was just a thought, which is why it is always silent.
