Rookie Chandler
For a while I thought everything was just starting to feel normal again. I have never been more wrong.
I already suffered with many, many issues. Ones that did include my deadbeat father. He is dead; died when I was twelve, but to me he died when I was eight. He was no longer my father after that.
It didn't mean that I killed him.
It was no secret why people would accuse me of such things; he was never a loving parent. He verbally abused Hillary and I. He even went as far as starving us when mom was at work and yelled when we asked. I had to step up and be the man of the house when mom wasn't around.
She didn't find out until I broke down one night.
I was ten years old and Hillary was just born. I had just put her to bed when I smelt a god awful familiar and forbidden scent coming from the living room. The smell I wasn't supposed to be exposed to in the comfort of my own home, the one that was shared with my parents, my newborn sister, and I.
I walked out of Hillary's room and walked into a massive cloud. I coughed, a lot. It was burning my throat and my eyes were watering as I was trying my best not to breathe it in, while trying to swat it all away from my exposed nose.
The living room was light but smokey. I got lightheaded just from stepping into it for a couple of seconds. I remember seeing the lit colourful lamp we owned that had weird head shapes.
My father sat on the dirty stained couch that we never got the courage to throw out. It might've been because of all the memories or the possibility because we were poor. Still, there he sat on that damn couch, my cousin sitting beside him.
I coughed, and coughed, and coughed, until eventually I coughed so much I threw up.
Any normal kid would think it was a fire; but I knew that smell all too well. The smell of cigarettes and lingering cologne sacrificed my lungs and eyes. With the main source of it sitting steps away from me.
He wasn't just smoking a cigarette, he had a tray sitting in front of him. The tray wasn't empty as it had paper poking out from a tiny box, a metal oval shaped tin with what looked like mini saws in it, and a bunch of stinky coloured nubs of some sort.
The good old mary-jane as they say.
It was when I tried poking at it he finally noticed I was there. "Oh, shit, man! Ally will be home soon. Open the windows!" My cousin said, panicking and smacking my dad's shoulder.
Of course they didn't bother with the fact that I was there.
Pushing past me, my father raced to open all the windows to let all the smoke out. My cousin frantically following his footsteps.
I didn't even realize it when I collapsed against the back of the couch, shaking and cradling my knees close to my chest with my head tucked in between my legs. I was rocking back and forth, hoping for
this raging headache to go away.
I had that headache for a week.
Around nine or so at night my mom finally came home. My dad and my cousin were passed out in my parents bed, but really I think they were just high off their asses, to this day.
I could tell by her face that the smell had not gone away. Her nose scrunched up and her brows furrowed the moment the front door opened and her figure was standing in the frame. My vision was blurry from having to blink through all that smoke just to find my damn dad and cousin. So I couldn't exactly see her clearly, even though the room was free of wandering smoke clouds.
"CHRISTOPHER!" My mom screamed the minute she stepped fully inside. I jumped a little at the impact and slowly made my way into my room. Unfortunately, I could still hear their argument through the paper thin walls of our house.
"WITH OUR CHILDREN AROUND?! REALLY! AND IN THE GODDAMN HOUSE WHEN I TOLD YOU COUNTLESS TIMES BEFORE TO DO IT OUTSIDE?!"
My mother was outraged.
That night wasn't even the first thing that happened that would be considered traumatic throughout my childhood.
A/N
Ray here! I just wanna say that this chapter hits a little too close to home. I experienced something like this but it wasn't as tragic as in the chapter.
Some of what Rookie went through as a child is similar to my own experiences, maybe some of Will's too, in the future. For now though, I apologize if it's a bit triggering for some, there's going to be quite a few of them in this book. It's a coping mechanism to lash out my thoughts and past trauma into writing.
Hope you enjoy the book so far
YOU ARE READING
The look behind those tired eyes
Historical Fiction"It's the look behind those tired eyes, Chandler. They tell a story not many could comprehend. Not a lot of people in your position are able to speak up about their mental health as much as you, you talking about it is a great thing!" "The only good...
