EMOTIONALLY ENTANGLED

Chapter 02.

CHAPTER 02: the killjoy

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The day was as dull as my mood when I got downstairs for school. Clouds had gathered in the  sky in an array of greys, but I knew they would clear by the afternoon.

Upon putting my shoes on, the doors flew open and my father stumbled through. He was nothing short of a mess, but it never stopped annoying me when he was. His hair unbrushed and tangled, his outfit tattered and creased in certain places and the stench of alcohol ran through my nostrils. It wasn't really a scent anyone would want to be smelling at eight in the morning, but it was difficult to differentiate any other scents in the air.

And though my disappointment was easy to hide, my anger on the other hand, was not.

"G-Good morning," he managed to gurgle out, but I knew he was still as intoxicated as he was last night. The state of him told me exactly that and he wasn't planning on changing anything to improve himself.

I felt myself roll my eyes, my impatience quickly building because if mom had stopped trying years ago, that doesn't mean I've cut him some slack. But I was far too deep into my anger that I knew nothing good would come out of our argument so I hurried to finish tying the straps on my shoes, "hello, dad, did you have such a good time drinking your ass off whilst I was up all night comforting your wife? I can't even believe this. It's not my job to clean up after a grown man."

He needed help.

He needed support, but we offered it. We tried and it had reached the point where us too began to feel the weight of his guilt upon our shoulders. I couldn't cope; mom couldn't cope, but yet here we still were waiting on him hand and foot like nothing.

I was slowly reaching my limit, though my mother had a better temperament than I did so it was rather easy for her to hide how she actually felt. However, I could tell straight away of her unhappiness and disappointment, her rage slowly but surely rising. It was there—all of the resentment—but she just never used it. The woman was far too good at cooling it down to a minimum.

"Why can't you think about anyone but yourself for once?" I muttered as he stumbled past me into the house. When he turned around, his gaze hardened on me, "I know you think you can just go around and do whatever the fuck you want because you know no matter what, me and mom have to support you, but what about us? What about her? What about me? I just want my dad back—yet you just up and leave—you turn hot and cold—you love us then you hate us, but we're trying here. You're the one who's given up on us."

I grabbed my things and left without another word. Mom may be better at hiding how she was feeling about my dad, but I wasn't and I didn't care if it showed. I was done cleaning up after his sorry ass, but I had limits too and I didn't care if he ended up resenting me as his daughter. The way he treated my mother was something I could never tolerate.

Everything fucking curdled into something poisonous and hateful and I was angry at him for everything he did.

My mother made every sacrifice for him so I couldn't let him talk about her the way he did or treat her the way he wanted to treat her based on his mood.

I've gone insane, I swear. Being at home certainly didn't help either.

Most of my time when I studied was spent in the library at school; there was never a time I actually studied at home because of how my parents fought. Only then, I could focus on doing well and maintaining the remaining stability I had before that spirals out of control too.