Heroin(e)

Chapter Eight

Mom was crying. Dad was hugging her. I watched them through my bedroom window. The sun hung right above our house and it was another hot day in a long line of them. Funny, Dad usually wasn't home from work this early. I worried he might have been fired. It would explain Mom's crying. 

I saw them go into the house and I got off my bed, leaving my violin behind. Racing into the living room I was just in time to see them walk through the front door. Mom turned her face away and swiped at her tears. "Hi, Esther," she said. "Your daddy is home."

Dad knelt down and held his arms out for me. Without question I ran straight for him and he scooped me up in a hug. "How's my girl doing, eh? Still playing that old fiddle?"

"My ears don't bleed anymore," I said and he laughed before kissing my head. He set me down and had a seat in his favorite recliner. Mom had gone into the kitchen but I could still hear her sniffling and sobbing. I stood by my Dad and watched the kitchen door like she might come out of it any moment. "What's wrong with Mommy?"

Dad sighed and patted me on the head. "Nothing is wrong with your mother," he said. His eyes wouldn't meet mine. I got worried. He had been fired, hadn't he? He was out of work and we'd be worse off than we already were. I could just see the eviction notice plastered to our apartment door for all the neighbors to see. Living on the streets and sleeping in a tent. I could feel hot tears swimming in my eyes. 

"Is it your job?" I asked trying not to let my voice quaver. 

Before he could answer Mom came back with a tray of freshly baked muffins. Along with being a good waitress, she was a good cook too.Her eyes were red and she set the tray down on the little table. "I thought we could have a little talk while we eat," she said looking at me. I looked back at Dad and he only nodded his head. 

**********

I wasn't proud of myself. 

After getting home from the concert I lugged out the old bottle of Jack I kept locked away in the bottom cupboard. Pulling out a small glass I poured myself a healthy amount and lay on the couch while my Chopin record played. Scout sniffed my glass and I held it away from him, petting his ears. "Good boy," I said.

Why was I such a cold hearted bitch? This was the fourth time leaving Bon like that. Why did I have such a difficult time saying goodbye? Why did I always look like I was running away from him? Why was I so hopeless? 

I finished my glass and got myself another one. 

Now it was four in the afternoon and I was due at work in an hour. Hungover and horrible to look at, I stumbled into the shower and almost screamed from the shock of the cold water. Washing my hair as quick as I could I climbed out and hopped up and down trying to warm myself up. 

Finding some decent clothes to wear was a nightmare. I couldn't ever find the shirt I was looking for or something was in the hamper. Finally settling on something I thought I'd have a quick bite to eat first. I fried two eggs and threw the pan in the sink with a clang. The dishes had piled up. Soon I'd run out of clean plates. 

Scout watched me and tilted his head. Either he was concerned by my hurrying around or he just wanted a bite of my breakfast. I gave him the tiniest piece of crust from my toast. He gobbled it right up. "That's all. You know you shouldn't eat human food."

Scout thought otherwise. 

After I ate I threw my plate in the sink with the pan and grabbed my bag. My head was killing me. I didn't think I drank that much but apparently it was more than I thought. Or my alcohol tolerance was decreasing. I shuddered at the thought.