Chapter 1

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I sigh as I hear the familiar sound of Pat stumbling through the front door. He reeks of alcohol and I can tell he's already had more than his fair share to drink. Again. 

"Hey there, sweetheart," he slurs, attempting to put on his best drunk smile. "How was your day?"

Anger and frustration bubble up inside me as I look at him. It's the same routine every day, and I'm tired of it. 

"Just great," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Except for the fact that you're drunk again."

Pat sways on his feet as he approaches me, a drunken grin plastered on his face. But then, without warning, his expression changes, and he raises his fist in anger.

"You always gotta give me attitude, don't you?" he slurs, his words running together. "I work hard to provide for us, and this is how you repay me?"

The alcohol has made him belligerent and aggressive, and I can see the anger in his eyes. I take a step back, my heart racing.

"You're drunk again, Pat," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "And you know I don't like it when you get like this."

Pat's fist tightens as he steps closer, his face twisted into a scowl. "You think you know everything, don't you?" he sneers, his breath reeking of booze. "You're just a bratty little girl, and you need to learn some respect."

My heart pounds in my chest as Pat's words slice through me. I know he's just drunk and angry, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear.

"I do respect you, Dad," I reply, trying to keep my voice level. "But I don't respect your drinking. It hurts me, and it's ruining our family."

Pat's face twists into an ugly sneer, and he takes another step towards me. His fist clenches and unclenches at his side, like he's fighting to control his anger.

"You don't know anything," he growls, his words slurring. "You're just a kid, and you need to listen to your elders. I'm the one in charge here, not you."

I sit down on the couch, staring blankly at the picture next to me. It's an old photo of her with my brothers Will and Jay. I'm young in the picture, maybe six or seven, and I'm holding an ice cream cone while my brothers are smiling and laughing beside her.

As I looks at the picture, a feeling of sadness washes over me. I don't remember my brothers, or the happy moments captured in the photo. All I can remember is the hurt and pain that comes with living with an alcoholic father.

Pat stumbles into the living room, the smell of alcohol wafting off him in waves. His eyes land on the picture of me with my brothers, and his face hardens.

"What's this?" he grunts, reaching out and snatching the photo from the table. "You've got no right to be looking at this."

I watch helplessly as Pat stares down at the picture, his alcohol-fueled rage building. I know there's nothing I can do to stop him when he's like this, and I can feel my own frustration and anger growing.

Pat shoves the picture into my lap, his face contorted in anger. "You think this is some kind of happy family moment?" he sneers. "This is just a lie. Your brothers left us, they abandoned us. They're not your family anymore."

His words cut deep, reopening old wounds that I had tried to ignore. I feel my eyes well up with tears, but I refuse to let him see me cry.

 "That's not fair," I protest, my voice quavering. "They were my brothers, and they loved me. Just because they're not here anymore doesn't mean they're not still my family."

"They're not your family," Pat repeats, his voice rising. "They left us to rot here, all alone. They abandoned us, and they don't care about us. We don't need them. We never did."

I look up at Pat, my eyes puffy from tears. I know it's a useless question – he's too drunk to remember or care – but I ask anyway. "What...what were their names?"

Pat sneers, his lip curling in disgust. "Will and Jay," he spits out. "Will and Jay Halstead. Not that it matters. They're not coming back."

The names feel foreign on my tongue, like they belong to total strangers. But there's a flicker of something in the back of my mind, a feeling that they should mean more to me.

"Why did they leave us?" I ask, my voice small and fragile.

Pat's face contorts into a snarl as he remembers the past. "They left us because they're selfish bastards," he growls, his words slurring together. "They couldn't stand living in this shitty house with an alcoholic dad, so they ran away and left us behind."

Later, I flip through the yellowed pages of Pat's phonebook, my heart heavy with tears. I don't know what I'm looking for, or even why I'm looking, but I keep searching.

Finally, my eye lands on a name that seems somewhat familiar: Trudy Platt. I scan over the details next to her name – her job as a sergeant in the police force, her number and address – and something tugs at the back of my mind.

Maybe I heard her name somewhere before, or maybe it's just my imagination. Either way, I scribble the number down on a scrap of paper and slip it into my pocket, unsure of what I'm going to do with it.

I close the phone book and put it back into the drawer, hiding any evidence of my snooping from Pat. I know he'll be mad if he finds out I was going through his things, but I can't shake the feeling that Trudy Platt is someone who could help me.

I hope this story will go the way I hope?  

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