A Spark of Love

Drunk

It has been one month since mom left us and every time I get home from work, I still expect to see her car in the driveway.

The only thing that carries me through my shitty day as a waitress is that possibility that she will come home, wrap her arms around me, and tell me how sorry she was and beg Dad to take her back.

I knew it was never going to happen, but that didn't stop me from imagining every possible way that it could take place. My most farfetched daydream was that she accepted an acting job and that she was going to move us to Hollywood and that we were going to be rich. That would be nice.

None of that happened. I was constantly disappointed every single day when I came home and found my Dad still sulking. It seemed like he was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. I think his work kept his mind busy while mine, on the other hand, was just a source of income. I had to get out of here, and that wasn't going to happen until I could afford a car.

I don't have anywhere to go really, but I guess I would just go confront my mom. Tell her how angry I am at her. Beg her to come home. But what good would that do? Then what would happen? Then I would be in Los Angeles. I feel a chill run through my spine at the thought. Something about that place just gave me the creeps. If I never set foot in LA or California, in general, I would be just fine.

My legs hurt by the time I get inside. I glance at the clock, it's almost ten. A month ago, I would have been shocked if my dad wasn't home at night. Now he spends most nights, after work, at the bar. I'm usually in my room by the time he gets home.

The combination of working eight-hour shifts and walking to and from my job has been much more difficult than I ever imagined. I finally understand why adults seem so excited about weekends.

The fridge is empty when I check it like it is most days. I make a mental note to stop at the grocery store on the way home from work tomorrow. I close the door and search the cabinets for something. I find a packet of Ramen Noodles buried behind some spices and seasonings. A thin layer of dust covers the paper and I know it's past the expiration date, so I don't even bother looking at it. I put a pot on the stove and added the directed amount of water and turn the burner on.

I head upstairs, slowly thanks to the burning sensation in my thighs, and change out of my work uniform. The one thing I can say is that my job has taught me that waiting tables is a hard ass job. After the first week, I promised myself I would always be a good tipper.

I slowly take my work uniform off and toss it in the hamper. I hear the front door open and slam close.

"Bella!"

I can hear it in his voice. He's drunk. I finish changing and force myself to stay calm as I walk out of my room into the hallway.

"Bella!"

I freeze at the top of the stairs. I don't know if I want to go down. My hand trembles as I reach for the railing. I've never seen him like this before. This isn't the man who raised me.

"Get your ass down here, right now!"

I turn and run to my room. I slam the door closed and lock it. He climbs the stairs, each thud making my heart beat faster. He is almost to my door.

I walk backward until I bump into the wall. There is only ten feet and a flimsy door separating us. I know it isn't enough.

His footsteps grow louder and finally stops when he reaches my door. The light from the hall is struggling to peek around his feet. His darkness is swallowing the light. The door handle creeks as he tries to open it. I hold my breath. I know it's locked, but I don't know if that will stop him.

"Open this door!"

I cover my ears as the tears start to flow from my eyes. I can't listen to this. He's the only person I have left. He can't do this. I slide down the wall and put my head down and try to hum loud enough to drown out his screaming and pounding on the door.

***word count: 783 words