summer with the sabres

one

         'See you in 2 weeks. Keep the house clean.'

The sticky note my father left for me is stuck to my fridge, hanging on for dear life. What a surprise. He left again, for one of his stupid "business" trips without actually telling his own daughter.  He's probably on a plane right now travelling as far away as he can from me to some dumb meeting that's probably not even work related. I peel the note off the fridge and stuff it into my sweat pant's pocket, ready to put it with the pile of all the other half arsed notes he's left me because he has never been able to say that he's going to my face.

He's a prick. A rich prick that pays for my stuff, schooling and gives me money when I want it, but still nonetheless, a gigantic fucking prick. That's what happens when you're a middle aged rich man. You might have enough money to present yourself as wholesome and a lovely person in the media, but behind closed doors you have the late night drunken meeting with friends and destitute hookers who drink of dodgy life choices and probably sexual transmitted diseases, with cigarette butts covering your desk, tobacco sticking to the wooden surface. That's what the media never see's. They (somehow) see a loving father who is motivated to make his only child's life amazing. What i see each day is quite honestly, very different. I see a twisted man who makes me wish i never existed. I see a man so motivated by his money he lost his moral compass and whatever sense of kindness he ever had. He probably just gives me money just to make sure i don't out him as a horrible, abusive, racist bigot to the public. He doesn't want me to tell people what he really does. If i did, well, that would be game over for me. Anyway that's enough about him.

I open the fridge and grab a beer bottle out of it. If he cant be hear to supervise me he can't shout at me for taking one of his precious little beers that he spends 3 grand on per year. I use my teeth to screw off the cap, a little trick i learnt when i was younger when he even banned me from his coke in the fridge, and the cap comes flying off onto the white floor. I pick it up and lob it against the window, falling into the bin, and make my way out of the kitchen, into the halls and upstairs.

My room is on the fourth floor of this house. I don't know why my dad even needs a house this big for the two of us in London, but here we are. He never comes up to the fourth floor and hasn't been in my room for a good 3 years so I have the freedom of doing whatever the fuck i like with it. I climb up the next few steps and scan the empty white corridor for any signs of life. I don't know why i do this, just an old habit I've adopted whilst living with my father on our own, ever since my mum died. I don't really talk about her much to anyone let alone my father as he shushes me any time i even start saying her name. She passed away 5 years ago, when i was 12, and my dad still tries to make me believe that it was an accident. Yeah, fuck that, it's a bunch of bullshit. How the fuck does someone shoot themselves in the back of the head and then fall off the top floor's balcony? Still, the court ruled it as a suicide.

As I walk through the halls I fiddle with a curl for a second, and once I'm done with all my 'im not like other girls' vibes I move back into my room, bringing out the note that was crumpled in my pocket and put it in a burgundy box i have in one of my desk drawers which is crawling with other notes left by him. It's pathetic that I really collect them, but I'm sure you'd do the same. Right?