Dead-Alive

Chapter 1

There are only three basic rules to live by:

1) Be fast and be quiet.

2) Trust no one or thing.

3) Don't get attached.

If you're not fast, you're screwed. If you don't know how or when to shut the fuck up, you're dead. Simple as that. Relying on people only gets you killed or worse. It's every man for themselves out there. People do crazy shit when they're put under life and death situations, or they're just upright sick in the head. And finally, don't get attached. Friends and loved ones don't last long. If you want to avoid getting screwed up more than you already are, kill your emotions before they get you killed.

These were the rules that were shared to me by a stranger once at a rundown bar out of town. I remember because of the cowboy hat and eyepatch he was sporting. Almost like a pirate-cowboy or something. The next day the news covered a story about how a man was found in a burn down bar. He was discovered wearing a half-burnt eyepatch with a gunshot hole in his other eye.

I remember sitting there with my snoring drunkard of a father thinking 'I met a man with an eyepatch last night'. It wasn't necessarily the fact that the guy was murdered in cold blood that bothered me. It was the fact that I just met this dude only hours ago. The thought of being possibly killed along with him if I'd stayed a moment longer.

I could had died too that night...

---

A newspaper plopping on the coffee table made me jumped. I looked up as dad tossed his trucker hat on the table and fell back in his old, lumpy recliner. A lit cigarette between his fingers and a beer in the other hand.

"What was that about?" I asked pausing the game, controller resting in my lap.

"You already live here rent free. Time you to get a job," his gruff voice filled the room like surround sound speakers.

I picked up the folded paper, the advertisements for job hiring already folded to the front. He must've had ideas on where I could work since there were red circles around certain ads. But in all honestly, I was surprised we still got the newspaper. Being 2018 and all.

"Dad, really? I barely got home, can I get settled in first before I start looking for a job?"

"Andrea, you been home for two months. You done nothing but sleep and play goddamn video games all day," he glared. His face was flushed and his eyes hazy, making me wonder just how much he had to drink already. "Now if you're not goin' to go to school, then you might as well help out 'round the house."

How would he know what I did? If he wasn't on the road, he was in his damn chair passed out with an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's by his feet. The first week I been home, he would hint at wanting me to find a job. And as the days went, he would make a snide comment about me not having money to help pay bills. For the most part I ignored him. But when he had too much to drink he would pick fights. Now it's coming down to this. Dumping a newspaper—that nobody reads anymore—on my lap.

"I'll look into it later." I tossed the paper back on the table and switched to my controller.

"Andrea—!"

"Jeezus, I fuckin' know!" I snapped.

Most of the time he ignored me unless it had to do something about money. And if he knew better, it wasn't as easy getting a job like it used to be. Hell, back in college, it took half of my first semester to get a part-time job. After all, the white guy says it all the time on the news channel. Economy's shit!

"Who do you think you are talking to like that, huh?" He stood up, hand tight around the neck of beer bottle and muscles tensed. His face red with anger and from the alcohol. "This is my house. I pay the bills. I support your lazy ass. I make sure—"