Dad seems to get more violent every day.
And when he's sober, he's a mess. A freaking mess.
I make him breakfast and forbid him from leaving the house the next morning.
"Hi Dad," I say, giving him his breakfast in bed.
"What you doing here kid?" he asks.
"Breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You must be. I'll leave it here."
"Fine."
He holds a hand to his head.
"I have a fudging shitty headache, Amy. Get me some panadol, or something, will ya?"
"Okay," I say. If I don't, I know there will be consequences.
Not that I care.
"Here."
He rips the packet open and gulps two down before throwing the packet on the floor.
"Get me some vodka," he orders.
"No, dad," I reply firmly and calmly, trying to help someone stop a habit when I can't even stop myself.
He sits up.
"Get me some now!" he shouts. "Or whiskey. Whatever shit there is in that fudging cupboard!"
I stand firm and refuse his orders.
"No, dad. No, no alcohol until lunch." Bit by bit I can do this. I can do this.
I can do this.
"Screw you Amy! If you don't get it, I'll fudging get it my fudging self!" he yells getting out of bed, tossing his breakfast on the door.
I block the doorway, trying to stop him, knowing it'll never work. He pushes me out of the way and barges down the door, stomping downstairs.
I pick myself off the floor wishing I didn't fall on my shoulder.
That didn't work. Again.
I'll stop trying to help other people when I can't even help myself.
YOU ARE READING
melancholia ✔︎
Short Storyall i need is a reason to live. a reason to keep living in this hell you call life. because melancholia is just too hard to control all alone.