Make Me Cry ✔️

the bullies

"WELL, WHAT D'YOU THINK, KIDDO?" Cooper Reed's father had said with a smile that stretched back his skin, wrinkles forming in the corner of his sage eyes. Cooper had just unwrapped his Christmas present, a fully pumped, NFL signed, Olympia football and was still trying to catch his words. "Should we take it to the park on Sunday and give it a test run?"

Cooper's mother had laughed, pulling a five-year-old Jamie, who was already lost in the colours of his rubix cube, onto her wooly blanketed lap. "While the two of you are throwing that thing around, Jamie and I will be eating our weight in strawberry ice cream."

"What about me and Dad?" Cooper whined, the thought of scooped sugary ice cream dripping from a waffle cone beneath the sun replacing the infatuation with his new football as quickly as a light being switched.

Cooper's mother nudged his arm with her toe. "You're a growing athlete, Coops. You should be licking boiled broccoli, not ice cream!"

"That's gross." Cooper huffed, crossing his arms and pouting. "You're all evil."

His parents shared a sly glance before his father grabbed him from behind and began tickling his squeamish eight-year-old body. "We're evil are we? Susan, Jamie, get his feet!" Cooper dissolved into a mixture of laughter, pleads and unattractive snorts as the fire illuminated a simple, happy glass family that didn't truly realise how easy glass was to break.

Cooper had carried that football everywhere -- zipping it into his backpack along with his action figures, under his feet in the car, and locked in his arms as he drifted to sleep. That was kind of how his father reminded him now: lying in a ratty armchair, head tipped back, eyes loosely shut, spit lining his chin -- and a glass bottle of vodka locked in his arms.

Cooper had sent his brother outside to check the mailbox, not wanting him to witness whatever person was going to wake up on that armchair. Tentatively, and biting back nerves, Cooper shook his father's shoulder, trying not to notice the strong and pungent smell of sweat, alcohol and morning breath heavily clinging to the air. His father grumbled something under his breath in a rasp but didn't move. Cooper kicked his foot, but he didn't move. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and easily pulled it from his father's grasp.

His father jerked awake, the word "Susan" on his ashen, chapped lips. He blinked rapidly, as if the little sunlight streaming through the blinds was burning his eyes. He scrunched his nose, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand.

"Dad?" Cooper questioned carefully, worried that he wouldn't recognise the person in front of him -- and even more worried that he would.

Cooper's father squinted with his once sage eyes, but now filled with the hazy emptiness the burning liquor brought. He grunted, rubbing his eyes. "What do you want?" His voice was thick with sleep and as dry as dead leaves rustling in the wind.

"Your work called -- "

"I'll do it later." He waved off, trying to shift back into the armchair and drift back into his booze-induced coma.

"No, Dad, you need to do it now."

Cooper's father snatched the bottle of vodka back. "You don't tell me what to do. Piece of shit." His eyes were drooped closed and his stinging words hung loosely in the air like a cobweb. Cooper's chest tightened at how easily the vulgar nickname slid from his lips, like a fat child down a waterslide.

But, as usual, Cooper's pain was soon exchanged with anger. He yanked the bottle of vodka and slammed it on the table with enough force to send his ears ringing -- and enough for his father's eyes to snap open. He pushed himself off the armchair, tilting to the side slightly as he tried to catch his balance. "Fucker, you don't take your Dad's drink!"

"I didn't take my Dad's drink," Cooper's voice was raw and dry, as if it had been scrubbed bloody of all emotion. "I took a drunk's."

His father clenched his fists, inhaling sharply. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Cooper hated that his voice broke. "I'm not the one that Mom would be ashamed of." Cooper lied. His Mom wouldn't just have been ashamed of her good-for-nothing husband, but also of her weak, feeble son.

Cooper's father froze. "What did you say to me, boy?" His voice was low but deep with rage and disrelish. Before his son could respond, he yelled, "What did you say!" He flung the half full bottle of vodka at Cooper's head, which he narrowly ducked. The sound of crashing glass and spilling liquid filled the room, rattling Cooper's eardrums and paralysing his body. No matter how many poisonous words, how many snarls and names and neglect his father had thrown at him, none had been done with his hands.

Cooper stared at his father in shock. His father's eyes were wide, his face pale as he stared at the broken bottle. And then he fell back into his armchair. "What d'you think, Kiddo?" he repeated, his voice growing slurred as he fell back into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind.

Cooper's hands were shaking, his mind whirling as he forced himself to look at the bottle that had nearly knocked him out cold. Bitterly, he recalled the drill: his father would wake up in a few days, dry and sober, and he would violently sob and apologise to his sons for what he had done. But Cooper knew that apologies meant nothing when he would go to sleep that day doing the exact same thing. He realized his cheeks were wet before he realised that his tears were the cause. AND THEN HE SOURLY HATED HIMSELF FOR LETTING THEM FALL.