The Religious & The Damaged (UNDER EDITING)

9

Elias

  I walk into my apartment, the door closes behind me as I look to my right.

  I see dad asleep on the couch; beer bottles on the table in front of him. I can't help but laugh shortly to myself.

  I walk over and send a kick to the couch in an attempt to wake him, and it does. He flinches awake and he meets my distasteful gaze.

  I shake my head, though now he's looking around the room and at the table—probably too fucking intoxicated to remember anything.

  "You're so fucking pathetic." I say, my voice probably too harsh, but I don't care.

  His eyes meet mine again. "Elias-"

  I let out an exasperated laugh and shrug my shoulders. "You were talking up your sobriety so fucking much too." I say. "I knew it was all an act. You probably had no real intention to really get sober, did you?"

  He stammers. I stare at him coldly, though he's not looking at me; his eyes are unfocused, like he's trying to make sense of the situation.

  "And you're on your meds? Knowing you shouldn't drink on them." He looks at me. "You just don't.. care about me or.. anything anymore? That's it, right? You just say, fuck it and that's it, you're gonna just drink away your life like you don't have a responsibility to me? Like you don't owe it to mom to be sober?"

  There's tears in my eyes, and dammit I hate to admit it but this hurts more than I thought it would. I hate that he still has this effect on me after he's disappointed me so many times before. God. I hate him so much.

  "Elias, I-"

  "No. Don't."

  I turn and pace towards my room, and I hear his stumbling footsteps behind me.

  "No, come on. You don't have to go."

  I slam open my door and start rushing around the room, shoving things into the tote bag I still held.

  "Son, please. I'm sorry."

  I turn towards him abruptly, my brows furrowed in great distress and my eyes meet his. "What happened to; this will be a fresh start?"

  "Elias-"

  "Or I'll be a better dad, I promise?"

  I turn my back to him and shove more things into my bag as I try so desperately to keep my tears from falling.

  I don't want to cry for him.

  "I tried, I really did-"

  I actually laugh. "For a month!" I state, disbelief heavy in my voice.

  "You don't get it, and I hope you never do." I walk past him to the bathroom, and his voice lingers behind me. "You have no idea how it feels to be miserable and completely helpless, to be in a body that you don't want to operate." He says, and my heart sinks.

  I stop and turn, my eyes wide and disbelief written all over my face. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

  I blink, and the tears I, so desperately, tried to keep from falling; fell. And anger took hold of my heart.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?!" I shout. He cowers back, and I scoff. "I tried to end my life, but you never want to hear it! Did you forget?! I took care of everything because you were too busy drinking yourself sick every day! I did it. ME."

  He stares at me, too stunned to speak. I sniffle and wipe my cheek harshly as I turn and collect my toothbrush and toss it into my bag.

  "And never you, you were too fucking loaded." I speak quieter, but it's still just as harsh.

  I walk past him. I leave. The tears stream down my face as shaky, hurried breaths slip from my lips, and my heart aches.

  I hate, hate how much this affected me. I shouldn't even fucking care anymore. I should've expected this to happen.

  Yet here I am, crying pathetically over my pathetic dad. I'm just as pathetic as him.

  I walk down the assortment of stairs and pull open a door, and walk down the hallway until I'm standing in front of room 301.

  I knock frantically, and I wipe at my cheek again as I wait anxiously; my eyes darting around the area until the door opens and I look up to meet eyes with Nick. He shoots me a confused look, but it's quick to turn concerned.

  "C-Can I stay here for a couple days?" I ask, my voice is wobbly and high-pitched.

  He nods, and I find myself falling into his chest—my arms wrapped around his torso as I let myself breakdown. His arms wrap loosely around me, but his grasp soon grows tight and his head rests against mine; the side of my face pressed against his chest.

  Today was shit.

  The next morning, Nick and I are walking to school—in silence. Until, he breaks it.

  "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but you can talk to me." He says in an attempt to break the tension between us.

  I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket as I tense at the idea of opening up, but I did it once before. I can do it again.

  "My dad's a drunk." I say. "And he relapsed last night."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah, and like, I hate that I care. It's not the first time he's fucked me over."

  "Yeah, but he's still your dad, man. Of course you'd expect better from him."

  He's right. No matter how many times my dad fucks me over, there will always be that part of me that holds hope that he'll actually be here for me when I need him to be because that's what he told me, so that's what I expected.

  "Yeah.."

  I feel his eyes on me, but I don't look over.

  I don't want to face the look of pity, not now anyway.

  Suddenly, his arm wraps around my shoulder and he pulls me against him.

  "It'll be alright, man." He attempts to reassure me.

  I smile slightly as a sense of hope fills my heart, and I lean into him and wrap an arm around his torso.

  I hope so.