Dance Till You Drop

Chapter 3

I woke up a couple of hours later when Dad stumbled through the door. My first thought was that my ballet teacher would kill me for sleeping in such a contorted position. My second; that my father was flat out drunk. Just what I'd feared. I understood, though I'd never been drunk myself, because I'd watched enough films, read enough books and seen enough of the world to understand that it was an "escape". A way that, even if it didn't actually ease the pain, a person could pretend it hadn't really happened.

"Dad..." I was kind of disappointed.

"Oh hey darling!" His words were slurred. "Shame you didn't come with us, ya know. I coulda set you up with a bunch of guys. You need to loosen up sometimes." I smiled grimly. Maybe dancing was all I did, but his way of loosening up was perhaps not the best.

"Some other time, Dad," Like when you aren't planning on getting drunk. "Why don't we get you to bed?" I wasn't entirely sure what to do with him, because I'd never seen him drunk before. I hoped it wouldn't become a habit. It ought not to. He'd probably be sorry by the morning, when his head was on fire and I was at school, not here to help him.

"Alright babe. Whatever you say." Babe?!? Who did he think I was?

"Yep, well, bed time then." Maybe if I could force some water down him he'd be easier to handle. "Tell you what, I'll give you one last drink before then, yeah?" His face brightened.

"Sure!" His delight was evident. I dumped him on the sofa, chucked a blanket at him and fetch a glass.

"Here you go." I watched him drink it, shakily, dribbling it down his face a little. He got up after he'd finished and lurched off to the bathroom. I followed him, wary of him passing out on the floor and choking on his own vomit or something. He left the door wide open and retched into the toilet. Nice. Once he was done, I took him upstairs and shoved him into bed. I know you aren't supposed to just leave them there, so I propped him up with pillows to stop him rolling over and left another drink by his bed, cos I'm not staying with him. I'm quite angry, actually. I thought he was better than this, but now it's 2 o'clock on a Thursday morning, a week and a bit after Mum's funeral, and he's as drunk as the girls I met on holiday in Santa Monica.

I get myself off to bed pretty quickly after that. It wasn't going to be fun tomorrow - if he was even up.