What Are The Odds?

Chapter 03/ Daydreaming - H

The warmth of the Sun's rays washed across my face reminding me that it was time for another day of work. I have a strange relationship with my job; I don't like it in the sense that I have to serve other people, but I like it because it gets me out of the house. But that's neither here nor there as I won't even have a job if I keep dawdling and miss the train.

I climb out of bed and head towards my dresser to change into my uniform. I try to tame my unruly auburn locks, but trying to accomplish such a feat is nothing short of a miracle. Sometimes I feel like just chopping my hair off, but I know that I never will. My hair is the only trait I got from my dad and I can't bring myself to alter it. 

After wrestling my hair into a loose bun atop my head, I carefully close the door so as to not wake my mother. Tip-toeing around the house, I find my mother passed out on the sofa. Of course she's passed out drunk at 9 AM on a Saturday, why wouldn't she be? 

---------------------------------- 

I finally make my way to the train station just in time for my train. As I've done hundreds of times before, I make my way onto the crowded, noisy train car and take a seat in my usual spot. Some people spend their commute reading or listening to music, but I use the time to think.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young girl a man with her, who I assume to be her father. She couldn't have been more than seven. I can't help but think about what my life would be like if my dad hadn't been in that accident. This is something I often muse about despite the advice of my therapist. She says that it is not healthy to dwell on the 'what-ifs'. To me, this sort of thinking is the very definition of the term bittersweet. It makes me happy to think about a life vastly different than the brutal reality of my own. I fondly remember and covet the life I once had. But once I remember that life can never be, that life died along with my father, there are no words to describe the feelings of emptiness that reverberate around my entire body.

Sometimes, irrationally, I find myself wishing I had never known my father. That way, I wouldn't have to live with the gut-wrenching reality that he was taken from me too soon. If I had never known him, maybe just maybe, I wouldn't feel so empty, so alone without him. I would never know the pain that I will carry with me for the rest of my days, longing for the for the unforgettable moments I will never get to share with him.

I will never look at the audience, beaming with pride, searching for him as I graduate.

I will never get to experience walking down the aisle with him.

I will never see the warm light sparkling in his eyes as he holds a grandchild for the first time.

I will never get to share these magical moments with him, moments that this young girl likely either doesn't think about or takes for granted. Why would she think any differently? At that age, I didn't either.

"Harper, isn't this your stop?"

I am brought back to reality by the gentle voice of the elderly woman whom I have gotten to know very well over the past year.

"Thank you, Karen," I stammer, trying to catch my bearings.

"Are you okay, dear? You seem off today?"

Despite talking with Karen for a year or so, she knows nothing of my home life. In fact, nobody does. I find that it's easier to keep it to myself than admit the horrible reality to others. Somehow, I find that saying it out loud, only serves as a painful reminder of the truth.

"Oh yeah. I just didn't sleep well last night."

Gathering my things, I walk towards the exit after saying my goodbyes to Karen.

---------------------------------- 

Walking in the front door of Jimmy's Java, the smell of freshly roasted coffee and warm pastries dances around my nose. I notice the patrons who are casually lounging, discussing trivial matters with acquaintances between sips of coffee. I politely nod towards several regulars who greet me as is their custom. I do so simply to be polite, not because I value my relationship with them. We are fundamentally different. They have the luxury of spending their Saturday sitting around drinking overpriced coffee, wearing designer clothes, and shooting the breeze with those within their elite social circle. And what do I get to do? Serve them that overpriced coffee. Wait on their every need. Listen to them discuss how overrated they consider their new smartphones to be. 

I used to be sad, thinking about how much I wanted a life like theirs. Now, I just feel anger. These people don't realize just how fucking lucky they are to live in a world where their biggest problem is that their husband got them the wrong size ring. We may be standing in the same coffee house, but we live in vastly different worlds. I live in a world where I work forty hours a week on top of school.  A world where the fruits of my labor are handed over each week to feed the unceasing demands of my alcoholic, abusive mother. A world filled with 'what-ifs' and 'what-could-have-beens'. My already minimal sympathy for these people has dwindled to the point of non-existance. 

How dare they sit there, leading the lives they do when I cannot even afford the very pastries I have to serve them. While I understand the irrationality of that thought, I still find it roaming around in my head. It's not their fault that I live the life I do, and I know that; I know this is just misplaced anger. Not only has my mother chosen to take hers out on me, but I don't have an outlet for my own anger, so I feel angry and resentful towards the living standard that these people represent. 

This anger is not healthy or constructive, but I can't help it. I don't know how to make it stop, but at the same time, I don't know that I want it to.

---------------------------------- 

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