Instead of Me

∆19∆

"I'm really sorry about this, sir." I guided my dad out the door. He was tripping over anything and everything. "It won't happen again."The bartender was nice, telling me not to worry about it. He said it happens to the best of us. Little did he know, my dad was probably the worst of us. 

Dad was defiant as I led him to my car. "I'm not drunk," he slurred, pushing himself backwards so that I couldn't shove him into the passenger seat. "I'm not drunk. But I want to get drunk. Please just let me go get drunk." 

I pressed downwards on his shoulder to push him into the seat. "Dad, you're drunk. If you keep going, you're gonna pass out and not wake up." He mumbled something incoherently and I slammed the door shut. I walked back over to the bartender. "Sir, I'm a high school student. I can't take care of him all hours of the day. If you could help me out by not letting him into the bar, that would be great. Just say you were sick of him always getting into brawls. It's not like he'd remember them anyway."

The bartender shook his head. "Son, I can try my best, but I can't make any promises." 

I nodded in response, standing there silently for a minute before deciding it was best to take my alcoholic dad home. I plopped down in the driver's seat and turned the ignition. The bartender was going back inside. Somehow, I knew that I had to help my dad or else the next time I get a call about him, it'll be to identify his body at a morgue. 

"I'm not drunk," he said again, pulling me out of my thoughts. "I'm not drunk. I'm not drunk." 

As I pulled out my parking spot, I set my hand on his shoulder. "You keep telling yourself that." Saying he wasn't drunk was the same as me saying I wasn't addicted to smoking cigarettes. But I have a goal to help me quit. Annie would realize I'm growing up and that I am in control of myself. I'm not impulsive, despite my reputation. Dad, however, was completely different. It seemed as though he was trying to drink himself to death. I couldn't remember the last time I saw him sober. 

It took me ten minutes just to get him out of the car. He kept falling back as dead weight. Eventually I was able to get him to work with me and I supported the majority of his weight as we struggled to get to the front door. He slumped into the chair at the kitchen table. I noticed the vomit at the corners of his mouth. 

I opened the door to the fridge, taking out all of the alcoholic drinks. I set them in a pile on the table. "You're done, dad. No more." 

He snorted, his head lolling around on his neck. "You're my son. You can't tell me what to do." A hoarse laugh bellowed from his stomach and out his chapped, vomit-covered lips. "I'm going to keep drinking if I want to. It's not like I have a problem."

I pulled a trash bag out from the cupboard under the sink and started throwing  the bottles and cans inside. "You can think that, Dad, but you're wrong. You have a problem and we need to fix it." I tied the bag up and slung it over my shoulder.

"You put those back right now, Finn."

"Wow, you remember my name today," I said flatly.

Out of nowhere, he gained a sense of balance and coordination, standing up and with his hands balled into fists. "Finley Alexander Robertson, you drop that bag right now." He grimaced, taking an intimidating step forward. 

I inched my way towards the door. "I'll drop it in the garbage can outside. I'm not letting you keep all this crap inside the house. It's poison to you, Dad." My voice was getting louder. I could feel anger exploding in my chest.

He took another step forward, taking a swing towards my face. I tried to dodge it, but I was caught between the counter and the table. His fist made contact with my right eye. My head seemed to rattle and I stumbled backwards, falling in slow motion. As I fell, the side of my face struck the side of the counter. The room was spinning. I held my hand up to my temple. There was a lot of blood. "What did you do?" I heard myself say, but it seemed like the words were drawn out for hours.