The Cracks in my Mind

September, 1995, Same day

I can already see the puddles, even before I reach the front steps.

They lead from the sidewalk to the gate, from the gate to the door. Passerby's slosh right through them, never noticing. It doesn't matter, though. They don't get wet. How could they?

I step gingerly past the puddles, though. Retrieving the key from under the door mat, I unlock my door, and step inside. The liquid is even worse here. It streams down the front hallway, warping the wood. It trickles down the walls, and pools at my feet. I wrinkle my nose at the smell, as I make my way through the house.

I pause at the door to the kitchen, already knowing what I'll find there. The puddles lead there, leaving the rest of the house mercifully dry.  I could walk right past, I know that. Although I'm hungry, I could always wait until tomorrow. Everything will be dry tomorrow. With luck, it'll stay that way until nightfall.

But I am hardly ever lucky.

And I never learn, either. Because I push the door open, like I always do. And find Alan collapsed on the table.

He is soaking. Liquid cascades down his small body, and falls on the floor. He doesn't look up, and I wonder if he's asleep. It's not like his wetness would bother him. To him, he's perfectly dry.

But no. As I pass, he raises his head. "Azzly..." he slurs, but I don't stop. Instead, I open the fridge, and grab a yougurt cup. As long as I'm here, I might as well eat. I reach for a spoon, but see the dirt on it, and stop. Oh well. I'll just eat with my hands.

Alan grabs my wrist as I pass. His touch shocks me - I always expect it to be dripping. But, as always, it's bone dry. I watch the liquid drip off his sleeve, then look at Alan.

"Happy Bithdy Azzly...", he mutters, using his other hand to dig into his pocket. I don't bother telling him that it's not my birthday. My birthday, in fact, just passed. Alan didn't remember it then though. He always remembers it when it's not.

He brings his hand up again, and opens it. Clutched inside is a crumpled, 5-doller bill. Alan smiles drunkenly at me, his big brown eyes shining. "I dizzided to gve you an allowansss...", he warbles happily. "What do you think?"

I observe the money dubiously. It sits in Alan's palm, innocent and free. Watching it, I feel a sudden tugging in my heart, like I always do. Please, please, let it be real. Please.

Then I see the liquid, dripping down over Alan's hand. Disobeying every law of gravity, it had snaked up his arm, and across his wrist, without me noticing. Now, it dribbles down into his cupped palm. I feel my breath catch, like it always does when this happens.

I watch the liquid reach the 5-doller bill. Watch as the green paper crumples under it's power, folding in on itself. Within seconds, it's nothing but a soggy rag, worthless and dead. I swallow, my eyes flicking to Alan's. He holds out his palm, smile still on his face. He still thinks he holds an uncorrupted piece of money, and he does. He just doesn't know. He just doesn't-

 Sudden fury shoots though my body, and I yank my wrist from Alan's grasp. Turning on my heel, I run. I hear him calling after me, offering up his waterlogged piece of paper, like it means something. Like this time, it'll be different. Like he won't do what he'd done, the five other times he gave me an allowance. Like he won't sneak into my room when I'm asleep, and steal it back. Steal it back, and drown his guilt in drink.

Will this time be different? No. My eyes never lie.

I run up the stairs, my brief anger already fading. Pushing open the door to my room, I sit on my bed. I turn the yogurt cup over and over in my hands, but I am no longer hungry. Even here, in my safe haven, the smell of liquor still permeates. The air around me is cold, but I barely feel it. It's nothing compared to the cold inside.

The people at the child-care center are worried. They suspect what goes on here, though they have no proof. And the people who do know don't tell. They don't have proof either. They're all worried that I'm going to grow up to fast. That I'm going to get addicted to alcohol, and stuff like that. Ridiculous really. Why would I ever want to do that?

After all, my father's a drunk. And look where he is now. Lying on the kitchen table, too far gone to remember his daughter's birthday.