not okay {ziam}

three

{three}

i won, mother fucker

-

i had to be quick -- get home, wash my hair, and then bike it to the cinema where mandy would watch some movie with patrick. i would wait until it gets dark, enter the theatre, sit in the back, leave before the lights turn on, and make sure she gets home okay. it had been fairly simple.

when i reach the shed, that i like to call my shoebox, i notice an uncanny post-it note on the door of my abode. i already know who wrote it as it had been none other than my father, the man who chooses if and when he would like to acknowledge his only son.

need to talk to you.

my eyes roll into the back of my skull, although being distinctly aware i couldn't disobey his word. even as i tear it off the rotting wood of the shack i lived in, irritation clawing under my skin, it does send a deep tremble down my legs. i chose to take a brisk shower under the shitty spray of the freezing water, throwing a beanie on over my damp hair and the warmest clothes i have tugged around me.

knocking on my dad's front door, the beautiful fixtures and modern touches to the grand home seem to especially irk me on this particular day. the house is pristine in every instance, with two story levels of white, sash windows peering into what seems like a happy home. the garden is finely detailed with exotic flowers and healthy trees, except, if you look a little closer, you will see where i reside. the decrepit outhouse which had been barely livable sometimes as i had to do without most working utilities. lets just say spiders aren't so much a fear of mine, rather freezing to death or mold poisoning sounded more promising.

my dad heaves the door open, the suit he wears to the dentistry he works in tight on his bloated body. the balding of his head and his face reddened with his functioning alcoholism, i almost feel sick at the sight of him. i forgot how long it's been since i had last seen him, hoping that this wouldn't take too long. he motions me inside, hanging up his business call, entering the elegant kitchen.

he doesn't spare me anything except a quick glance over, his voice monotonous.

"the electricity bills are getting higher." he deadpans and oh, yeah, i forgot to mention he's the cheapest man to ever exist. even if he had plenty of money to spare, he would notice a ten dollar increase in his bills.

i can't help but to glance at most of the lights switched on and the television droning in the background of his lavish home -- filled with exquisite belongings and certainly enough space for more than one person. but, as if you couldn't tell already, my father much preferred my presence near to none. i thought maybe the only reason he hadn't sent me out onto the streets to fend for myself was just to torture me.

so i had to keep it somewhat civil, because i preferred a bed rather to none.

every time i enter his endless manor, i'm refreshed with the harrowing memories of my horrific childhood. glancing at the television set, i recall being only ten years old and getting punched so hard that my blood had stained the white carpet, all due to watching cartoons without asking his permission. i still see the discoloration of the brown splatter, remembering the questioning gaze his maid had sent me, as if to ask, are you okay? and then, the spiraling marble staircase — the way he had chased me up them one terrifying night and grabbed my ankle, yanking me back and breaking my nose on the polished step. for getting home late, i had been fifteen, i think. or, the time he had gotten deliriously drunk and threw a butcher's knife at me, stabbing my finger. there hadn't been a reason for that one.