My eyes flutter open and I begin to process that I am not in my normal steampunk-themed bedroom. The one light in the garage flashes down on me as a turn on my side. I suck in my breath as I realize I have more bruises on my hip. This has got to be the third night in a row dads come back angry and drunk as hell. The window is slightly cracked open and I can feel a small breeze coming through. I have work today. I pull myself out of bed awaiting yet another beating from my dad. Still a bit drowsy, I fumble to the steps and quietly turn the handle of the wooden door, careful not to wake my dad. If he's asleep at least. The alarm system is on. The door is locked. And so are the windows. Yet I'm as free as I'll ever be. My dad is not here.
The grandfather clock in our living room dings 6 times meaning its 7 am. I've got 2 hours to kill before my job at the Marionette Hotel front desk. The tv lures me in, and I sit on $12 couch that dad won't let me get rid of. He tells me it's 'city grunge' style, but with all its beer stains, seam rips from our German Shepard, and the oh so painful shriek it makes when you sit down, we wouldn't be able to give that thing away if we tried.
Around six or seven years ago, dad went on a hunting trip in Portland and while he was there, stopped at a flee market. He called me saying he was bringing home a souvenir. But what he didn't tell me was that along with the souvenir, he also came back with a woman. Who a year later I started calling 'mom'. Later I found out that mom was the one who sold dad out couch. And then one night in July, 2 years later, she left. Dad won't tell me what happened. He's never mentioned mom after that. I've just assumed dad keeps the couch around because he misses her. He's never admitted that but some things you can just tell because of the tone of voice a person uses. In this case: weary and soft-spoken.
The intro music for 'Seattle News Daily' and I snap out of my back story.
