Twisted: Flash Fiction

Full Circle

"I hate you! You're ruining my life!" I scream at the top of my lungs, spit flying everywhere.

Snot runs from my nose, too, but I don't wipe it away. I just leave it hanging there because I don't care. Same with the tears pouring down my face. The floodgates have been opened and I'm too tired to close them. In fact, I hope I drown. I'm done trying to pretend everything is okay.

I run upstairs to my room. After slamming the door as hard as I can, I lock it. It's a miracle my parents even let me have a door with a lock. One, because we can't really afford to buy things we don't need, and two, because my dad is rarely ever sober enough to do anything around the house, which includes, but is not limited to, picking up after himself.

I guess I shouldn't say it's a miracle, though. I begged for an entire year. They finally gave in when I promised to keep the door open whenever I had boys over. Right now, I'm glad all that hard work is paying off. I'm pretty sure he's pissed I screamed in his face. It's not like he'd do anything major, though. He's shoved me before, but he'd never hit me. At least, I don't think so.

Of course he follows after me. I'm scared at first, but when I hear him trip on the bottom step, I know I'm home free. He's too drunk to put one foot in front of the other, let alone break down a locked door. He probably won't even remember, anyway.

"K'trrrina. Trina, honey, I'm sorry. Pleash come down here. C'mon, we'll go get ice-sh cream."

I really want to tell him to fuck off, but I can't bring myself to do it.

"Screw off! Why don't you just go have another drink, Gary?" I shout between hiccups, settling for calling him by his name and not dad. He hates that.

"God-da-damn it! Well, shee-yut!" he yells. Whenever he's this drunk, he adds all sorts of syllables to words. At first, my friends and I laughed, but they don't come around anymore. Not even the ones who live in our neighborhood.

I hear glass shatter. Then wretching. Finally, crying.

What an idiot. No wonder my friends don't want to hang out with me anymore. He's so embarrassing. I can't drive yet—or I'd most definitely be gone—so I'm stuck here with this loser. Why doesn't mom just divorce him? We'd be better off. Then she wouldn't have to work so much just to take care of his sorry alcoholic ass.

I don't get it.

***

I hear the back door slam shut. I try to sit upright, but the couch has me in a sleeper hold. What the hell? It seems like just yesterday I was running around out back with the kids.

But it's not yesterday; it's today. Yesterday I lost my job. Again. Today I've been licking my wounds with some Absolut. I would say the father of my children would be upset, but he's long gone.

I try to hide the bottle around the side of the couch before my daughter comes into the living room. Like my reflexes, my brain is moving way too slow. My heart, though, is beating fast. Figures. A single thought pounds itself out in time, but I'm determined to push it aside. I can do this. She won't even notice.

"Hey, honey, how was school today?"

You've failed! You've failed!

"It was fine. You're home early," she answers, suspicion narrowing her eyes.

You've failed! You've failed!

"Oh, I took the day off—"

"You lost your job again, didn't you?"

You've failed! You've failed!

"Amy, honey, I'm jush going through a rough pash. Things'll get better."

"You're a drunk, Katrina." She uses my name instead of mom because she knows how much I hate it. "And you always will be. Just like grandpa."

I hate myself in that moment because she's right, and I'm too drunk to disagree.

When I don't say anything, my daughter looks me in the eyes and says, "Don't worry about me, mom, I'll be fine. Why don't you have another drink?"

I flinch when I hear her bedroom door slam. God, she's just like me when I was her age. I mutter a prayer that this disease doesn't consume her, too.

I reach for the vodka. My nose is running and tears are pouring down my face, but I don't care. I bring it to my lips.

Hurt, resentment and anger rush to the surface full force and suddenly I'm fourteen again. But instead of slamming my bedroom door, I throw the bottle hard against the wall. I hear it crash, shattering into a million pieces. The same sound my resolve makes every time it breaks.

"I hate you! You're ruining my life!" I scream, at the top of my lungs, spit flying everywhere.