Beckett Shepherd
I step into the house, the hallway dark and gloomy. Silence blanketing the darkened rooms as I close the wooden door behind me and switch the lights on, the path lighting up. I mentally cross things off on my mind-list.
I took Jo to Annie's house this morning just before I left to take off for my daily workout at California Shield2, a gym where I train for my monthly boxe matches. Will probably went there too after school this afternoon, by now they should be sound asleep in Annie's spare room.
I nod to myself. Dad...
I pad to the living room and turn on that light, too. The harsh light illuminates the familiar figure of my dad sprawled and limp on the ragged old couch.
I knew he was here. Actually, I was sure of it. No doubt at all.
By now it feels like a routine that ingrained itself into my system as slowly and subtly as wind sliding through the fessures of a door. I do it mindlessly, like it's something I do so often that it's as normal and ordinary as brushing my teeth.
I bypass the coffee table in front of the couch and stop when my knees touch the sofa, dad's right leg dangles lazily out on the pavement. I sigh, anger simmering in me but never coming to a boil or exploding.
This will not be for long.
Just some more time.
Then I take an old throw blanket from the armrest of the sofa and pull it on my father's passed out body, leaving the boots on his feet.
Dad always passes out from drinking too much alcohol during the day (and night), a little more than four years ago he just started slowly slipping under. Drowned by the pain of losing mom and wanting to stifle it down.
I slowly startedfeeling like I was the only one who was taking care of my youngerbrother, Will. Dad started missing turns at work and probablydrinking there too. They understandably fired him. Then Jo knocked onour door and my world tilted sideways all over again. And as quicklyas humanly possible my little sister made me fall in love with herwhen I decided to take her with me.
I look behind me tothe coffee table to inspect the mess I'll have to clean up tonight.Glass bottles litter the old wooden surface, some are half-full andothers are just empty. Then with the corner of my eye I see somethingpeeking out from under the coffee table. Frowning, I crouch down andnotice an open box of pizza laying there in the midst of dust and twoother empty Jack Daniels bottles.
Ah, yes. I'm alsonot a stranger to empty pizza boxes thrown on the carpet.
I cringe at thehorrible smell and pick up the empty, smelly box from the dirtycarpet. Sighing, I pick up as much bottles as I can from the floorand cast a last look at my father's limp form before getting the hellout of that room.
After stepping outit already feels like the air is cleaner. The stench of stale whiskeyis just faint here, while in the living room the mixture of thestrong smell of alcohol and the once delicious smell of pizza createda very unpleasant smell that I should be used to by now.
But that never goesaway.
Breathing in alung-full of uncontaminated air, I enter the kitchen just in front ofthe entrance to the living room, split by the hallway. I throw thatstuff in the trash bin under the sink and take a couple more roundsgoing into the living room to pick up the empty bottles littering thefloor and the coffee table until the only things remaining are thethree half-full bourbon and vodka bottles. Anger constantly simmeringin my gut.
