What Are The Odds?

Chapter 01 / Shadows of the Past - H

As the dilapidated wooden stairs creak below me, I inhale deeply. I know as soon as I walk through that door, the smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke will fill my body and invade my lungs. I know she's home; why wouldn't she be? Today is pay day after all.

You know, I've never understood the expression "Home, sweet home." For me, home was anything but. It was a constant reminder of the tragedies of my past and the unlikelihood of a bright future.

As expected, the pungent odor smacks me in the face, the same way it had for the past five years. I'm greeted by the torn carpet that was once as white as a blank sheet of paper. The carpet that I learned to walk on sixteen years ago now takes the color of the cigarette smoke it is permeated with. This room, the "family" room as others may call it, is anything but to me. How can I call a room such a thing when, as far as I'm concerned, I don't have a family anymore. There are people in this world that I am related to of course, but that doesn't make them family.

The person who is my mother by blood, and blood alone, starts wandering down the stairs. At one time, I loved her more than anyone else in the world. Now, she represents everything wrong with the life I am trapped in. She is the warden to the prison of misery in which I am serving a life sentence. I hear slight thuds against the wall as she staggers in a drunken stupor, moving closer and closer to me.

"How did we do tonight?" she barks in a voice deeper than the one of my late father. It was worn down by nearly a decade of alcohol abuse and a pack of cigarettes a day.

Knowing the alternative to giving the answer she wants, I hesitantly reply "Four hundred and ninety-three dollars."

"That's it?" she spat in disgust.

"That's more than fifty hours of work."

"Hand it over."

Against my better judgment, I reply "I'm sick of this bulls*it. I worked for this money and I'm tired of you helping yourself to it. I know it's just going to be feeding your addiction and I need to be saving for college!"

I had a split second to regret my decision before her hand came crashing down against my cheek. As painful as an injury like this felt at one time, over years of abuse, I had become numb to her beatings. I feel the pain, but my brain chooses to ignore it, or at least it pretends to. I know if I respond, if I get angry, it just gets worse. Out of a desire for survival, my first reaction is to stand down. Her abuse triggers my fight or flight response, but years of this situation presenting itself has weathered my body's response.

"How dare you talk to me that way? Talk to me again like that, and I won't be letting you off so easy."

At that moment, I simply want to burst into tears. Not because of the pain or even the fear of what she might do, but rather out of despair and heartbreak.  I want nothing than to mourn for the life I could have - no, should have - been able to experience. The pain of knowing what could have been is far worse than any physical pain she tries to inflict on me.

"Just make this easy on yourself, and hand over the money. Maybe I'll let you keep some next week."

It took all my power to suppress the wry chuckle creeping its way up my throat. I know that's not true, and it never will be. She said the same thing last week. In fact, she's been saying the same crap for the past three years.

Wanting to avoid additional confrontation, I comply with her demands and gingerly hand her the envelope. Fifty-three hours. Three thousand, one hundred and eighty minutes, gone. I fume with the knowledge that the fruits of my hard work will be squandered at the local liquor store, leaving me with nothing to show for it.

Shuffling past her, I head towards my room, my safe haven. The walls that were once adorned with soft pink paint and showcased family mementos were now riddled with scratches and gashes. The lilac, lacy curtains that once framed my window are now shredded beyond recognition. To me, it was paradise. If I had anything resembling a home, this was it. But my favorite part of this room was the part nobody could see. I rummage under my bed and pry up the loose floor board beneath. 

I find myself staring at the two items housed in that compartment day after day, hoping against hope that gazing upon them once more will bring my father back. I still remember the day the first picture was taken.

-------------------------------------------------

It was a cool, crisp autumn afternoon, the first of the season. My parents were raking the leaves that littered the front lawn, and I was trying to help them. Looking back on it now, my seven-year-old self was probably more harmful than helpful in the situation, but I thought I was helping and that was all that mattered. As I was standing there, trying to control the leaves that kept flying away, my brother Brody snuck up behind me and pulled my pigtails. That was Brody for you I suppose. What is a nine year-old brother to do other than cause mayhem?  I immediately burst into tears, attracting the attention of my parents. As my mom spoke to Brody, my dad rushed over to me to try to console me. 

As he wiped the tears from my eyes, he looked straight at me and said "Harper, I may not be able to take the pain away, but I will always be there to wipe your tears. Not just today, but every day."

I looked back at him with tears welling in my eyes and sputtered "You promise?"

"I promise pumpkin."

-------------------------------------------------

Every night before I fall asleep I play those words over in my head. At that moment, I felt safe and secure. I felt as though nothing could ever hurt me. My dad was my best friend, my protector, my rock. This photograph showed a happy family, a genuinely happy family. There was no inclination of the tragedy that would descend upon us in the coming years.

The second item housed in the compartment is my father's obituary. When I was ten, my father was in a bad accident. It was a single car crash; police suspect he was run off the road or something to that effect. In other words, they have no goddamn clue what happened and rather than spend any time or effort investigating the truth, they just shoved it under the rug.

My mother didn't know how to handle my father's death. Obviously we were all grieving, but for my mom it was different. You see, my mother and father were high school sweethearts. They had the kind of love that you see in the movies. Before his death, she was vibrant and full of life. I loved her dearly and I knew she felt the same. 

Either she didn't want to or couldn't accept my father's passing but either way she turned to the bottle to cope. She needed someone to blame, and so I became her scapegoat. My dad was driving to pick me up from school when he crashed so in a drunken state one night, she made up her mind that I was the one at fault. Now here we are, almost ten years later and I live with a mother who beats me, I have a brother I haven't seen in years, and my father lives in plot 153 in the local cemetery.

As I look back at the photo, a single tear rolls down my cheek and lands on its surface. I wish I could go back in time and relive that day. I wish I could hug my father one last time and tell him how much he means to me.

As I sit here in the dark, dingy place I call home, I couldn't stop the tears from flowing down my face. I had never felt so alone as in this moment when I realized that I had nobody to wipe my tears away.

-------------------------------------------------

If you're enjoying the story so far, please take a second to tap the star and vote or leave a comment :)