Macto

2; Death of the Party

It started when I was 10. Every dollar, every penny I could get my hands on went into the jars. I didn't buy dolls, or candy, or video games like every other kid. At first it was tough to accept that fact, but eventually it just became a habit. The only way I had a chance of escaping was with money. Money could get me into college.

"If you could see yourself from the perspective of a close family member or friend, how would you describe yourself as a person?"

I figured it was a creative way for the university to ask the dreaded question of "Who am I?"

And I had absolutely no idea. If I was being honest with myself, I had lost every living part of my soul when she left and when he changed. I'd like to believe that deep down, he truly loved her with every fiber of his being. That he couldn't stand the idea of being without her and that's why he broke.

But the reality of his situation is that he came to the conclusion that there was no one to pay the rent anymore, and no one to look after me. No one to fulfill the adult responsibilities that he was supposed to help with all along.

He was a terrible parent and even more of a fucked up person. Even before she left. It just got worse when she wrote that final note and packed a small bag and fled.

Alcohol became his only consistency. Sometimes he would consume so much, I swore that it ran through his veins instead of blood. The 12 pack of beer, and 5 shots of vodka made him nonhuman to me. The bloodshot eyes, beer breath, and the countless holes in the walls became my sense of normality with him. My nights became filled with the sounds of smashing bottles and high heels on the floor from the random women that showed up twice a week. And I decided that the only way I would make it through was to not care. I learned that the ability to feel something within was either wonderful or a nightmare.

Without warning, my mind snapped back into the task ahead of me.

My thoughts struggled to keep up with the depth of the question ahead of me. How the hell was I supposed to know how others saw me? Mom was gone, and he was definitely not my father. Yes, I was biologically related to him, but he was not my father. He'd lost that right 5 years ago. Any close friends I'd once had were pushed away. Pushed out of my life with my so called happiness.

I felt as if the question was mocking me, showcasing the fact that I really didn't have anyone. Besides Josh, but I'm not even sure he counts.

This wasn't pity. I stopped feeling sorry for myself long ago. Back when I decided that feelings were nothing but merciless poison. The scars on my wrist reminded me that the only thing I allowed myself to feel openly was physical pain.

"One of the most repeated phrases throughout the history mankind is that "life is unfair". The idea has been drilled into our heads and the only result has been a strong sense of self pity. I've come to learn differently. Life is fair, simply because it is unfair to each and every person. To different degree-"

My train of thought wqs abruptly cut off by a distant slamming sound that definitely came from another apartment. I wasn't sure if the reason I was able to hear the noise so clearly is because of the fresh holes pasted across the wall, thanks to him, or because the goddamn walls were the width of a piece of paper. Either way, it was pretty annoying and my essay was not going to write itself.

Several minutes later, the sound had yet to decease. It seemed to be growing in volume. An unrecognized song filled the air as well, coming from the same source as the pounding. My temper was growing short, which it rarely did anymore. I decided I was not going to let some dumb ass ruin my chance of writing a stellar essay, which they were successfully doing up until that point.

The stomping of my feet reminded me how reflective these floors were as I made my way across the apartment. The permanent smell of old pizza and whiskey made me nauseous. It was all to repetitive. There was such a negative connotation with the scent.

He was passed out on the couch, some shitty reality show muted on the screen and an empty can rising up and down on his chest. I tore my eyes from the familiar sight.

In the hallway, the sounds increased dramatically. The source was not far from my apartment. The sudden memory of a conversation with a neighbor popped into my head. She had been telling me about how the Andersons were moving out and how quickly the apartment had refilled but she didn't know anything about the new occupants.

My subconscious proved to serve me right, as I pressed my ear against 4426, the Andersons old apartment. An obnoxiously high female voice was my first detection. She was bragging about something. I rolled my eyes with annoyance and pounded on the door relentlessly.

Several minutes passed without change or any acknowledgement of my knocking. So I threw my fist against the door with more force.

Obviously, I didn't give a shit about what the insensitive, obnoxious people thought of me; so I made that crystal clear.

The door swung open without warning and a girl a few inches taller than me, maybe 5'6, stepped into my presence. Her face was caked in makeup, with a painfully obvious foundation line swept across her jawline. Her bleached blonde hair stung my eyes and her dark roots were visible. Her overly-lined eyes shot me a look of annoyance.

I wasn't normally one to judge anyone's appearance harshly, but this girl was creeping on my nerves and she seemed to be giving me an even worse evaluation.

"What do you want?" Her high pitched voice rung a familiar bell and I recognized it instantly.

"For you to keep it down, I'm trying to work and I can hear you from down there." I pointed down the hall to my door.

Her glare hardened as she whispered something about me being bitch under her breath.

"Benz!" I was shocked when her voice hit an even higher pitch.

And the next thing I knew, he replaced blondie in the doorway.

Crystal eyes. That's the first memory.