To Live Again

1. Courting Death

The back door slams shut. The quaking force sends a shudder through the kitchen countertops. The tremor enough to cause the tip of the paintbrush to move just a fraction too far to the left and ... there goes the north star ... more like north splodge now.

I daren't look up. It's not worth it. Eye contact only aggravates him when he's in this state.

My father; a tall, skinny, sullen, rake of a man, staggers through the small porch door. His arthritic fingers uselessly groping at nothing but air and shadows. I chance a quick glance, just to make sure he isn't injured, or incontinent. Not the first time I've hosed him down at the back step. His glassy eyes wheel around in his sunken skull, their once hazel colour now dull and murky. Too young, he's too young to look this old.

His parched and cracked lips smack for the taste of something more appealing than water as he sways through our tiny kitchen, gaze fixated on the fridge. Dad has a thirst; a never ceasing thirst for gin, brandy, beer, or whiskey. Anything he could get his idle fingers on, but none of it ever satiates his need. Nothing takes away his sickness. It's a pity.

Meekly, I still my paint stained fingers and lower the paintbrush. The last time Da had barged in on me painting he threw the precious - and extortionately expensive - tubes of paint in the garbage along with the portrait I'd slaved over for weeks. I'm not prepared to lose another labour of love. It's not his fault. His memory is worse now. Doctor says that's to be expected.

"There's lentil soup in the microwave, I can heat it up for you now, or you can ke—"

"Soup! Always feckin' soup!" Da growls and bashes a chair in his irritation, jamming a wobbly finger my direction. "If you spent less time drawing silly pictures and more time acting like a grown woman, out earning proper money, we'd eat like kings...selfish bitch."

I recoil. Carefully easing the canvas off the table and moving it out of reach. He doesn't mean it. I'm not a child and well able to brush his insensitive insults off. He's nothing but a poor man, sick with a selfish illness that consumes his daily life. But, I'm all he's got. We've all each other's got in this whole world. When the drink wears off he knows that. Just not right now.

"Where's the lager?" He hangs off the fridge door, swinging on its hinges.

"We've only a few tins left, Da." I move to steady the door so he doesn't careen straight into the dining table.

"Well who drank them?" He roars, pressing his unwashed face into mine. The smell of stale booze and rotting teeth assaults my nostrils, but it's been a long time since I gagged at the smell, though it still makes the eyes water.

"You, Da." I sigh and grab a fistful of his sweater, half-guiding, half-dragging him through to the lounge, all whilst he erupts into a slew of colourful curses with not one comprehensible syllable between them. "It's alright, I'll get you some on the way home from work tonight. The good stuff. I promise."

He grumbles something and takes a swing for my head. I dodge and lose grip on his sweater. The release sends him staggering backward, and with one ungraceful shout he lands on the couch face first.

"Oh, Da." I sigh, and reach to try and prop him up.

"Get away!" He muffles from the cushion, him limbs flailing uselessly.

"I will when you sit up." I try to slip a hand around his chest, to get enough leverage that maybe it'll be enough to flip him right-side-up, but he's not having any of it.

"Get away on with ye!" He barks, his fist slamming into my gut.

The punch is strong enough to land me against the coffee table. I grab the edges and double over, wrapping an arm around my middle to hug in the pain. I swallow the tears. He doesn't mean it. He's just sick. Besides, it's not the worst.