𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, cobain

six.

          THE HOUSE WAS silent when I got home. The curtains were drawn shut, barricading any natural light from seeping into the living room. The only gleam of radiance emanated from the television in front of my father who snoozed in his recliner, a trusty bottle of Budweiser in his grasp as the vinyl player in the corner buzzed and spun a David Bowie record. His protruding beer belly heaved with every snore bellowing from his open jaw.

"We can be heroes, just for one day..."

The man before me bore little resemblance to the father I had once feared in my youth. Where I had once cowered in the shadows as he raged in drunken fury, I now looked at him with pity. As I loomed over him, my shadow swallowing his figure, I felt as though I was reclaiming my power, finally in control as an adult. Yet, I couldn't shake the childhood memories of him downing liquor and hunting me through the house like a tyrant with a belt, while I screamed, enduring the wrath meant for my mother. It didn't matter if my only offense was spilling crumbs on the rug; I was his outlet for anger.

"Though nothing will drive them away, we can beat them just for one day..."

I crouched down on my hunches and gently removed the bottle from his tight grip. Ash crept from behind me.

"We could steal time, just for one day. We can be heroes, forever and ever—"

He lifted the vinyl needle and abruptly stopped the song. "What a fucking loser."

"Don't say that." For years, I had come up with excuses for him—his divorce, losing his job, an argument with my mother. But Ash saw right through him.

He flopped onto the couch. "Erin, he doesn't have a job. Nana and Pop are the ones whose money is tied up in this house. All Dad does is sit around and drink and cry about Mom."

"He's heartbroken," I retorted quietly. "Imagine if you got a divorce from the woman you've loved since high school."

"That divorce needed to happen. Mom's a mess."

My father stirred, letting out a soft murmur as he shifted his neck to the right. I seated myself next to Ash. "I just feel bad for him," I whispered. I twirled a ring on my finger and spoke after a brief lapse in conversation. "Mom wrote me, you know."

Ash perked up. "What?"

"Yeah." I balanced myself on my palms. "She basically apologized and asked me about my life. She wants to know how you're doing."

"Did you tell her?"

"I haven't written anything back yet. I've been meaning to, I just don't know what to say."

Ash looked at me sadly, twiddling his thumbs. "Can I read it?"

I delved into my coat pocket and extracted a crumbled envelope, handing it to him. I watched him closely—he seemed to melt into the ghost of our mother's presence as he pored over her letter. He gulped a quivery breath and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes welling with tears. I reached out and swathed him in a comforting embrace. As the oldest sibling, he'd weathered our parents' storm for much longer than I had.

"What do you think?" I muttered.

"I feel like we should go see her," he submitted, surprising me.

I frowned. "I don't think so, Ash."

"It's the right thing to do. She's probably lonely."

"I don't know if I'm ready yet."

"It's not about you," Ash pressed. "I'll go alone if I have to. I wanna see my mom. Doing it in person is better than writing a letter."