𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, cobain

six.

          THE HOUSE WAS eerily 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 who sat before my eyes bore little resemblance to the father I had once shrunk from in my youth. Where I'd once cower in the shadows while he raged in a drunken stupor, I'd now looked at him with pity. As I loomed over him, my shadow engulfing his figure, I felt as if I were reclaiming my power over him as an adult finally wielding control. I couldn't blink away the childhood memories, however, of the way my father used to guzzle liquor and hunt me around the house like a tyrannical monster with a belt while I screamed, enduring the fury that was meant for my mother. It didn't matter much to him if the only crime I had been guilty of was something as simple as spilling crumbs on the rug; I was his vessel 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—"

Ash lifted the vinyl needle and abruptly stopped the song. "What a fucking loser," he said defeatedly, lacking his usual bantering tone. He meant it.

"Don't say that." I still felt obligated to defend my father. I had fabricated excuses for his drinking for years: He had had a divorce, he was laid off at work, he had an argument with my mother. Ash only saw right through him.

Ash 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."

"You're just like him, you know. You're twenty-five and living at home with your family."

"I'm looking for both an apartment and a job, bitch. Turns out, college degree can't get you as far as you need it to. And you know shit's expensive because you're twenty and living here too."

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.