The air in your father's tiny apartment is thick with the cloying smell of stale beer and regret. It's Saturday evening, and the sun, setting over Lusaka, paints the dusty street outside in hues of orange and purple. You're perched on the worn edge of the sofa, your gaze fixed on the flickering television screen. A rerun of 'The Bold and the Beautiful' plays, but your mind is a million miles away, consumed by the events of the past few hours.
It all started with the arrival of your father's 'friends,' a motley crew of men who always seemed to appear after a certain number of beers. You've learned to recognize the telltale signs: the boisterous laughter, the clinking of bottles, and the ever-present aroma of cheap alcohol. You knew the drill - stay out of their way, avoid eye contact, and pretend not to see the way your father's eyes glaze over and his gait becomes unsteady.
This time, however, things took a turn for the absurd. You were engrossed in a particularly dramatic scene on 'The Bold and the Beautiful' when you heard a familiar voice on the phone, thick with the slurred pronouncements of a man well beyond his tolerance level. You couldn't help but eavesdrop, your heart sinking as you recognized your mother's name.
'Baby, baby,' your father's voice crooned, 'I love you so much. Can you...can you come over? Just for a little...you know.' His words were punctuated by the hiccuping sound of a man struggling to articulate his desires.
The phone fell silent, punctuated only by the shrill laughter of his 'friends' in the background. You felt a wave of nausea rise in your throat, the bitter taste of betrayal mingling with the fumes of cheap alcohol.
You knew, with a certainty born from countless past experiences, that your father was drunk. You also knew, with an even stronger certainty, that your mother wouldn't be coming over. Not tonight, not ever.
As you watched the television screen, your mind replayed the conversation, each word etched into your memory. You could almost hear the silent, unspoken words in your mother's voice: 'Don't you dare. Don't even think about it.'
After a moment, the phone call ended, and your father hung up, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. He turned towards you, his eyes glazed over and his breath slightly reeking of alcohol and regret.
'You know, son,' he said, patting your shoulder, 'Your mother's a real firecracker. Always knows how to make a man feel good.'
You simply nodded, unable to stomach another word, another lie. The laughter of his friends drowned out your silent scream of disgust. You retreated into the world of the television show, finding solace in the predictable drama of the fictional lives unfolding on the screen.
As the night wore on, you found yourself watching your father, a strange mix of pity and anger brewing in your stomach. You saw the sad, confused man behind the drunken facade, the man who had lost his way, his dignity, and his sense of self. You saw the man who, in his drunken stupor, forgot the consequences of his actions, the man who betrayed the love and loyalty of a woman who had patiently endured his flaws for years.
Eventually, the 'friends' left, their laughter dying down into the quiet of the night. Your father, slumped on the sofa, was a picture of defeated misery.
'Dad,' you finally said, your voice trembling slightly. 'You're scaring me.'
He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and shame. He mumbled something incoherent, his words lost in a haze of alcohol and guilt.
You knew then that you couldn't stay. You couldn't bear the thought of being caught in the crossfire of his drunken ramblings, the target of his irrational affection, the silent witness to his self-destruction.
You stood up, the silence of the night amplifying the weight of your father's actions. You looked at him, a wave of pity washing over you.
'I'm not staying here,' you said, your voice firm. 'I'm going to my mom's.'
And you walked out of the apartment, leaving behind the smell of beer and regret, the weight of a broken promise, and the lingering echoes of your father's drunken confession.
