My father left me and my family on a rainy day, according to my mother. Maybe that's why I drink. Although I've never seen him, it still hurts. I can't seem to avoid daydreams that involves this unknown man when I was younger. I think of this faceless man attempting to tame my hair into pigtails. Him hugging me tight to the comfort and warmth of his chest when I'm frightened of my own imagination or of the loud roars of thunder and rain. Him trying to convince me that boys are a waste of time and that the only man I need is him.
Boys are a waste of time. I don't need a man in my life at all.
Maybe I drink, because the soft humming of the rain pattering on rooftops and the concrete of the streets is relaxing. I like to be wet; helps me remember that I can still feel. I like feeling raindrops roll down my face and fall onto my hands. It's peaceful.
But peaceful leads to thinking.
And thinking never leads to any good.
