The screen door closes behind me and I'm inside of my home. The only home I've ever known since I was a little girl.
I shut the front door so mosquitoes won't come through the holes in the screen door and into our 'lovely' home.
The familiar smell of cigarettes and strong alcohol assault my senses and I'm overwhelmed. Just like yesterday and the day before and every other day I've been conscious of my surroundings. It's only gotten worse since my mom died of an overdose on seroquel. It's how I know my dad is home from wherever he leaves to in the morning when I stalk off to school. I know I should be used to it by now, but my longing for something different and my ideals of a better life cause me to separate myself from the reality of this lonely, depressing hell hole that I was ironically blessed into.
It's obvious that my father is upset when he grunts," Where you been at?" I ignore him and continue to my near to empty room to put my backpack down.
I lay down on the palette I've made on the floor and stare up at the ceiling.
In the living room, I hear my dad struggle to stand and then I hear his feet shuffling toward my room. He then appears in the threshold of my not so private space. Damn, I wish I had a door to close behind me.
"So you gone act like you didn't just hear me say something to you?" It looks to me like he's struggling to hold himself up and he holds his head in a way that makes it seem likes he's close to nodding off.
I still don't say anything. I really don't feel like talking to him. I've had a bad enough day as it is already, and he's not gonna do anything but make me feel worse.
He struggles to walk towards me. I sit up in response, balancing myself on the palms of my hands. I look right at him. Just pitiful, I think to myself. And my inner voice responds,'And so are you. I will the thought away. I need to focus on what's right in front of me. Not how I feel about myself.
My dad grabs at the collar of my shirt and failing he instead raises his hand to slap me. I flinch and move my upper body away. Somehow, his hand still manages to connect to the side of my face, and it stings a lot more than I thought it would. I slide back against the wall and put my hand up to my face where my father's hand was not long ago. I'm dumbfounded. I can't believe he just hit me. Like he used to hit your mother. My inner voice chimes in. I ignore it. But it's the first time he's ever hit me.
He backs away from me, and I don't know who's the most surprised out the two of us. Tears spring from my eyes and I can't control the sadness and anger boiling inside me---toppling over the rim of the pot that is my heart.
From somewhere within me the word,'Why' falls off of my tongue and I'm assaulted by more tears pouring out of my system. Emotions stir deep inside me and I don't know what else to do but let the tears fall and I realize this will be a night I cry myself to sleep.
