"Baby, there's something about you that makes me want to feel again." His raspy voice whispers in my ears as he rubs his large rough hands against my back.
"Does that scare you?" I ask my voice only being able to form a quiet whisper, He stays layi...
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BABYS POV:
I stare into my mirror, its surface cluttered with Polaroids capturing moments with friends, red lipstick stains clouding my reflection. I turn around, checking out my outfit for the night - old ripped black jeans and a pair of well-worn black Doc Martens that still fit snug, a testament to my ownership since the age of fourteen.
Satisfied with my ensemble, I jog over to my dresser, grabbing an old white tank top, its fabric marred by the lingering scents of cigarettes and cheap perfume. I don't bother with a bra - tonight, it's a free-the-titty affair.
With my bag slung over my shoulder and a battered pack of cigarettes in hand, I skip towards the door, descending the stairs with a swift rhythm. However, at the bottom, I nearly trip over my father, sprawled on the ground in a drunken stupor. Empty bottles of vodka and whiskey surround him, and puke mingles with his greasy hair. The stench of booze oozes from his pores, prompting an involuntary cringe at the nauseating odor that fills the air.
"Jesus Christ, what fucking died?" I scrunch my nose, deftly jumping over his inert body.
With a light kick, I attempt to rouse him, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. Finding him wasted with drugs and alcohol has become a routine since the night my mom passed. It could be worse, I suppose, but instead, I'm stuck with an absent alcoholic father who has neglected my brother and me since I was eight.
When life gives you lemons-scratch that, when life gives you spam. No one likes spam.
"Dad, wake up," I roll my eyes, a heavy sigh escaping my lips.
Entering the kitchen, I reach into the cupboard beside the fridge, pulling out a bowl and a box of frosted flakes. I glance around the corner - he's still sprawled on the ground. Opening the fridge door, I hold it ajar with my hip as I pour milk into my bowl, humming to myself in an attempt to drown out the chaos that has become my everyday reality.
"You know, it's very rude waking a man from his slumber," my father's voice calls from behind me, making me jump slightly.
"Did you know there's something called deodorant? It's on sale at the grocery store right now, actually," I call behind me as I put the milk carton back. Shutting the refrigerator door, I grab a spoon and take a seat on the half-broken kitchen stool. Taking a bite of my frosted flakes, I watch my dad grab a beer from the fridge. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a lighter and deftly opening the beer bottle.
"I pay taxes; I have the right to stink," he mutters, stumbling over to the stairs.I shake my head, putting another spoonful of frosted flakes in my mouth,
"Last time I checked, you've been suspected for tax fraud more than two times," I remark with a mouthful of frosted flakes.
"Fuck the government! Did you hear they put cameras in birds? Those shithawks aren't even real!" He slurs.
