A Murderous Mission

Three

A loud crash and shattering of glass woke me from my deep slumber, I glanced at my nightstand where my digital clock stood, groaning as I read it: 3:26 am. Throwing my red fluffy pillow over my face, silently wishing I could just drown it all out.

Knowing I, unfortunately, could not, I quickly stood but regretted it immediately. My vision blurred with white and I got extremely dizzy. I sat back down on the edge of my bed until my vision cleared and head settled. 

I stood back up, more slowly this time, but felt quite stiff. I looked down and frowned, I was still wearing my clothes from yesterday. I had been sleeping for almost 12 hours, I don't know if that was a good or bad thing, but I'd surely find out later.

Rubbing my eyes, I sighed and opened my door, quickly remembering I had closed it yesterday before I could have a mental freak-out again about never closing it. Listening for the slightest sound, I waited and listened for something - anything. 

I couldn't hear much as my heart started to pound through my ears, drowning out any small noise I could have possibly heard.

Curiosity consuming my thoughts, I stepped out into the small hallways and downstairs to my living area. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized it was just my father. 

The crash had come from a bottle he had apparently dropped midway to the couch, before passing out on the hardwood floor. Looking up, the T.V. was on yet again, and he apparently was going to watch Pawn Stars before he crashed.

Literally.

Walking around the island in the kitchen, I grabbed the Swiffer broom from between the fridge and wall on the right side next to the pantry. Walking back over to my father's mess, I cleaned it up for him, knowing he would not, too depressed to think about anything else but her.

After all the glass pieces were accounted for that I could see, I grabbed a wet washcloth and scrubbed the beer off the floor. Glancing up at my father who was still passed out on the floor in between the couch and coffee table, I seemed to just realize he no longer went into his bedroom unless he had to to get ready for work.

Her death has done such a toll on him, he can't even stand to lie in the bed they had shared fourteen years ago. Especially because that was where she had died and that was her choice of scenery for her passing, she wanted to be nowhere else but in her home, surrounded by the two people she loved the most. 

Dad had wanted her to stay in the hospital just in case, silently hoping to himself they could cure her at the last minute, but Mom was too stubborn and wanted to be home, knowing there was no cure for her extreme condition.

While dad never gave up hope, mom knew her time was near, she knew it was inevitable, and I think that's what really broke dad, that she wasn't fighting for the cure as much as he was. That she was ready and willing to go, to leave us behind, thinking everything would be fine. 

I can only imagine what mom would think if she saw us both now; dad depressed to the core even after fourteen years, and myself having to step up and be the adult in the house.

Tears swell my eyes as I recall Dad telling me this before he got addicted to alcohol. He told me many stories about Mom, and I loved every one of them. 

Unfortunately, as time went on, and I started middle school, gone longer in the day, Dad started to officially lose himself. He was never abusive, he would never hurt me, but sometimes I believed he got too drunk to notice my presence, let alone my existence.

Once again, I found myself turning off the TV, pulling the soft brown blanket over his large frame, and heading back upstairs. I didn't bother changing for bed, as I was too tired to even care, I only had two and a half hours before I needed to get up again for another day at school.

*•.¸♡ ᴀɴɴɪᴇ ᴀᴅᴇʟʟᴇ ♡¸.•*

thank you, next
xoxo