Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I was at Tom’s house with a pounding headache wearing his clothing.
Either way, I wasn’t dying.
Damn.
“You want breakfast?” he asked.
I arched my eyebrow, trying to determine the amount I’d screwed up the night prior.
“Nah. Going home.” I pushed myself up from the bed, feeling next-level nauseous, but I didn’t want to hang around too long.
I glanced outside and saw the sun.
Damn.
I missed the sunrise.
Sorry, Mom.
That was the problem with being fucked up—you missed out on the important things.
Tom drove me back over to Savannah’s to pick up my car. I thanked him for helping me out, and he said anytime. It seemed like he meant that, too, which was odd. The guy didn’t even know me but treated me like we were best friends.
As I pulled into my driveway, I sighed, seeing Dad’s car in the garage. He’d left it wide-open and was parked on an angle. He hadn’t drunkenly passed out in the snow the night prior. He must’ve thought getting behind the wheel was a good idea.
At least I didn’t drive home wasted, I thought to myself as if trying to justify that I wasn’t my father. Though, I would’ve driven home like my dumbass father if I could’ve. I was no better than him. I was him in so many ways that it left me uncomfortable. Mom always said I was a carbon copy of my father. I always felt that that was some insult, though she said it as if it were praise.
I hated the parts of me that mirrored him, and lately, those parts seemed to move in rhythmic harmony. Drunk, high, and disconnected from the world.
Like father, like son.
I walked inside the house, and the smell of something burning instantly hit my nose. I turned the corner into the kitchen and groaned. “What the hell, Dad?” I barked, rushing to the oven and pulling out a black-as-night pizza. Burnt to a crisp. Tasty.
The oven was smoking like wild, and I hurried to open the windows to air out the house. I wasn’t fast enough because the smoke detector went off, echoing throughout the space.
I grabbed a newspaper and started fanning the detector to get it to shut off as the smoke cleared out of the space.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dad muttered, walking into the kitchen, still drunk, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing a suit, probably the one he had worn to work two days ago. I was shocked he hadn’t been fired yet, but judging by his looks, that was probably right around the corner.
“Your pizza is done,” I muttered, annoyed, angry, and sad.
“Shit. Forgot about that. I shut my eyes for a minute.”
“You could’ve burned this whole place down. You gotta be smarter.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to like that?” he barked, scratching at his scruffy hair. “Don’t forget who pays the bills here. Watch your tongue. Do you understand me?”
I didn’t reply because I didn’t care.
“Speaking about smart, I got a call from your uncle. He said you’re failing your classes. What’s that about?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. If your mother…” He paused as if he’d become frozen in time. The words rolling from his tongue seemed to work as a reminder that his wife, his best friend, was gone. He shook himself from the grief that sometimes choked him out midsentence. “You need discipline. It would be best if you enlisted after graduation. No question about it.”
Here we go again.
My father’s idea of parenting was telling me to become who he’d been, starting first with me joining the Army—the opposite of what I’d ever do. I was trying to run far from who my dad had been, not toward it.
“I’m not doing this,” I said, walking past him.
I bumped his shoulder, and he swung me around to face him. “Don’t do that. Don’t brush me off. You need to enlist.”
“I’m not doing this,” I repeated. “You’re drunk.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he ordered.
“Don’t talk to me,” I dryly replied.
“Listen to me,” he barked, gripping my arm. He locked his eyes with mine, and it happened again—the suffocation of grief. I knew why it happened to him. I had her eyes. I figured that was why he’d hardly looked at me over the past year. I might’ve had my father’s asshole tendencies, but I held my mother’s eyes.
He dropped the hold of my arm and averted his eyes. He moved over to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a pack of beer. “Do your damn schoolwork and get your life back on track,” he ordered.
You first, Father dearest. You first.
Over the next days, I knew the tension in the house was only going to get worse. We’d step on one another’s toes, trying to avoid facing the fact that we were approaching the year mark of Mom being gone. He’d drink more, I’d smoke more, and we’d pretend we weren’t falling apart until we ultimately crashed.