A Strange Attraction

Chapter 4

A few days pass. All are the same. I don't dream anything else, however, my mind still floats upon the strange dream. I have yet to decode it. I can't even begin to understand the meaning of it. My mom said he beckoned for me in the store, yet I did not see him do so. Is that what the dream was trying to tell me? Something so simpleton as a mere conversation?

I sit on the couch opposite my mom. We have previously been discussing dinner, a boring and mild topic. All of a sudden, my dad bursts in the house. He breaks the calm of the room by stomping in, screaming and ranting like a mad man. The dogs start to bark and it becomes overwhelmingly noisy in the small room. My mom starts screaming at my dad.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO THAT DEAL!!! YOU CANT TRUST ANYONE AROUND HERE!!" she yells.

He continues to rant and stomp, bitching about how someone stole his money and didn't bring him his pound of weed. He then stumbles his way to the fridge and jerks it open, slinging condiment jars everywhere. He grips a bottle of ice beer and slams the fridge shut, dislodging more condiments from inside. He then blindly starts for the little dog, holding the bottle neck like a club. He looks nothing more than caveman. I get up and yank the bottle from his meaty fist before he can pull back and smash the poor dog. He bellows in rage, his words slurred to no recognition. He swings for me. I duck. He hits the wall behind me, knocking stuff away, including the skin of his knuckles. He sounds like a mad bull. I rear back with my tiny fist and it connects with his forehead. He screams and stumbles back, falling freely into the floor, hitting his head on the hardwood floor. He leans up shakily and shakes his head a few times like a dog shaking water from its coat after a swim. He rolls around on the floor, clearly wet farts and shits in his pants, then pulls himself up by the hot stove and stumbles down the hall to bed, shitty pants and all.

My mom stares at me blankly. Then she starts to scream at me, blaming me for what all had happened. How in the hell could I cause something like this to happen? I just kept him from killing YOUR dog, you ungrateful hag. I tune her screaming out and walk off toward my bedroom in tears. They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of fury, of madness, of relent, and sheer anger. I am always blamed for his drunkenness. I slump on my bed and pull the vodka from my satchel. I open it and glug as I cry my tears of anguish. I lay down and rocked myself with the bottle to my lips. It burned but I never ceased to drink it. I gulp the bottle like a sippy cup. When half of it is drained, I close the lid and throw it in the floor. I continue to rock myself and I set off into a world of haze as the vodka takes its toll. Before long I'm feeling all warm and wrapped in comfort, like the arms of someone's embrace.