Spurs for Studs.

20

 Kristie arrives home soon after 11. Slamming the front door in her wake. I lay across the couch, cold can in hand, spit bottle sat on the floor, lid discarded on the coffee table. Abi had been tucked into bed an hour prior. Kristie yelled angerly into the phone as she shucked her purse off onto the floor, water bottle bumping harshly against the counter top. "Dad, Stop. Just stop talking. I told you to play nice." A few minutes of angry pacing occurring before she responds this time with less venom in her voice. "No dad. Please. You didn't even give her time to get to know her. All you did was shut her down every chance you got. If you would've let her speak and gotten to know her like I asked you to do- like you promised to do. So what if she isn't a genius. I don't care that she won't cure cancer. She is honestly the most loyal person I know." She pauses once more before hanging up the phone. A sharp curse leaves her mouth before she slams her hands onto the marble counter. 

I stay stuck to my spot. This was something she would need time to work through. She doesn't toss a glance to the couch as she stomps towards the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The lights click off under the crack in the door. I remain stretched out knowing Abi would wake with the thundering force used against the cork filled door. Just like clock work three minutes pass before the spare room door opens softly, brow eyes peeking around the half opened door. I beckon her over to, opening my arms. She takes the invitation. "I don't like when she is upset." Abi mumbles thumb scratching against her chin. 

"I just think of it like when Daddy died. Lord momma was a mess. She just needs a minute." Abi nods along. I know she was too young to really remember our daddy so when she was told how much of a son of a bitch he was she didn't have anything to compare it too.

"I don't really remember daddy. I was just about five or six when has passed." She mumbles, sleep prevalent in her voice. 

"Its for the better." I mumble. Scarred fingers raking through her hair. "He was an ass." Stating honestly as I remember my old man. Always with a beer in hand. 4:30 in the morning the blue ribbon of the Pabst can showing through his fingers, thick horseshow of tobacco was packed, his spit coming out in a puddle. The buck 110 on his hip incased on a leather sheath, his left hand would rest on it when he had a minute to stand around. He would curse everything when we ran cattle drives to nearby farms for other ranchers to sell too factories. He wore a big colt revolver on his right hip and his rope sat over the saddle horn, weathered and worn by the elements. The thick buckle on his belt from a rodeo way back in his high school days. The insignia worn by touch over the years. He'd cuss momma out any way he could. He was a stupid soon of a gun but boy was her creative with his swears. Momma was strong in the face of it. Never wavering.

She would go on years after his death shaming his name, dragging it through the mud before reversing back over it. Years spent with rage boiling in her gut with every story retold by her mother. As the years past the anger dissipated. The more she thought back to her daddy the more the distaste grew. She had been viewing her father behind rose colored glasses all these years. The more stories told the more she started to resent her father. He'd cuss her out over anything, a stray hair coming from the braid she had tried to fix before church on Sunday, or the click of a loose spur against the wooden steps of the wrap around porch. 

A small part of her was happy that Abi didn't really remember their father much. Everyone that knew he made their hatred known after his passing. He was mean down to the bone and anyone who had met him in passing got first hand experience into the boozehound. 

"What was he like to you?" Abi questions watching the internal conflict display across her face.

"Mean son of a bitch I tell ya. Ranker then a Heffier in heat. Always cussing everything out, the wind on a good day."

"Did he ever hit you?" She prods, mommas definitely told her a story or two. Family secrets were known by the family to make sure they were always swept under the rug.

"I can't tell you a day he didn't hit me. It ain't ever hurt really. He's two shot into the wind when he hit me." I mumble fiddling with my fingers. She nods once more excusing herself off to be. I spit out my lip before heading into the spare bathroom to brush my teeth before heading into my room. Kristie is stick straight underneath the covers. I get in behind her and hold her close. I knew I couldn't help her get through this but if my Prescence helped then lord I'd be here.

Succumbing to sleep minutes later. Vivid images of my daddy passed behind shut eyelids. playing like a movie as he brough down the buckle onto my back, the empty cans being hurled at us, the hot rod being pressed against denim clad thigh. All of it being replayed over and over again. 

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Short little update.

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