In a world of liars and cheats, only the good die young. My grandmother told me that just before she died and I cling to the words, believing she entrusted them to me. Lying and cheating are inherited traits in my family, so I know she spoke from experience.
She died at eighty-four. Did that make her the worst of them or the most resilient? Either way, I hope the saying is true, because there’s only so much a good person can take.
“Don’t you have work tonight?”
Squashed into his threadbare reclining armchair, my dad glares across the lounge at me. Bent and crooked, the bottom of the chair is stuck in the open position and the back touches the floor whenever he leans too far. He reclines precariously at its sweet spot and roosts in it. His bare chest is on display—if you count the blanket of thick, dark, curly hair as bare—and he wears only apair of skid-mark encrusted boxer shorts and a mismatched pair of socks. I stare at his fat toe, peeking through the hole in the left sock, rather than at him, as I answer.
“Yeah, I’m running late.” The second I admit it, I know I’ve made a mistake. Dad likes nothing more than to pick on flaws, and he finds enough of those on his own. I don’t have to give him ammunition too. Exhaustion must have eaten away at my survival reserves if I’m making such novice mistakes. I need rest, not another shift atCarlito’sBar.
“You’d better not lose that goddamned job.” His eyes burn twin holes in the side of my head, his mouth curves into a sneer. The words slash out across the room, and the unspoken part of the threat hits just as he intended; a sharp hint of what awaits me if I screw up. He uses a special tone just for me; a piercing knife-edge dancing between impatience and caution. He doesn’t give a damn about me or my job. He simply enjoys reminding me he won’t think twice about putting me in my place.
Despite living on my nerves, always expecting the next fight, I learned a long time ago to not take him to heart. If I let the things he says upset me, I’d have no heart left.
“I won’t!” I snap and regret my tone; I know better than to mouth off. The problem is he has a point. Iamlate and I seriously risk pissing off my boss for the last time.
My gaze trails across the ugly grey carpet to the frayed material of his chair, then up over his wide grin, full of crooked yellow teeth, to his eyes. They burn, not with anger, but with spiteful pleasure. My stomach twists. I’ve earned myself a slap for sure.
Plus side, he won’t bother with me now, not when he can savour the anticipation and pay me back after my shift. He’ll never risk injuring me before work. No. My shitty earnings are more important than his annoyance at my sass. After all, how else will he pay off his debts?
He drops his voice low and speaks slowly, forcing me to listen. “Get a move on and don’t forget my whisky.”
Closing my eyes to stop from rolling them, I hiss a breath out over my teeth and shove my swollen feet into my sneakers, which are still coated in flour from this morning’s shift atButchers & Bakers. I dust them off absent-mindedly with my scarf before throwing that around my neck. Both are now smeared dusty white, but I can’t make time to care.
Nor can I stop to empty my bag; anchored to the floor by its sheer weight. My first attempt to heave it onto my shoulder is a total failure. All my course texts, library books, journal, and a half-eaten cookie from two days ago stubbornly cling to the floor. These, my most important possessions, I carry around on my shoulders daily. Today the weight feels too heavy a burden to take with me to the bar.
But there’s no way I’m leaving them here either.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I swing it all onto my back and try not to buckle under the weight.
“Juliet!” Dad yells. Hot pastry smacks my head, crumbling and catching in my hair then cold, congealed mashed potato and gravy splashes against my cheek with his second throw.
“I’m going!” Chucking my wallet and keys into my jeans pocket, I run to the door, nudging TJ out of the way and stepping over Casey with her swollen diaper. I doubt anyone will change her before Mum gets home from the factory and consider stopping to do it myself, but I just can’t spare the time, not today. I’m on seriously thin ice.
“Casey needs a diaper change!” I yell as I run out of the door and slam it shut. Dad’s probably fuming, but I don’t give a damn. He’ll think I’m criticising his parenting. He’ll consider it back-talk, but I’m set for a beating later anyway. What more can he do?
The only thing that preys on my mind is Casey and the guilt that gnaws at me for leaving her in such a pitiful state.
Why does he get to sit on his fat, lazy arse while Mum pulls twelve-hour shifts at the factory and I work two jobs? The least he can do is to be a parent, change a diaper, cook a meal—something. But what irritates me most is we are all too damn afraid to address the issue. There is no criticising him. He isn’t a father. He’s a tyrant.
I flit along the corridor, plucking lumps of gloopy potato and pie from my hair and dropping them on the floor. I should care about that, about the mess, but no one cares in Olive Tower. There are plenty worse things discarded in the corridors than my father’s microwaved dinner.
The sludge I pull from my hair almost appeals to me. An empty feeling in my gut reaches up into my throat and I realise I’ve not eaten since my shift atButcher & Baker. The hunger gremlins in my stomach are only encouraged by the smell of food cooking in the neighbouring apartments. Saliva floods my mouth. My stomach groans a little louder, demanding the feast. Mexican, Italian, Indian, and Jamaican cuisines; all the rich aromas mingling together into a medley that should nauseate but is delicious.
Damn it. I need to quit dreaming and get to work.
The plastic, shiny coating of the elevator call button is worn rough from overuse. I hammer it and wait for the familiar rumble of the car, but the button stays dark and the shaft remains as cavernous as my stomach. I press again. Nothing happens.
Broken again?
Why is my entire life a goddamned trial?
I feel like the white-freaking-rabbit. The wordsI’m late, I’m late, I’m late,are on rinse repeat in my head and the thought of taking the stairs has me weighing up whether it’d be worse to stay home or turn up toCarlito’slate.
Who am I kidding?I risk getting sacked atCarlito’s, but I’m guaranteed a beating if I go back indoors. So, I suck it up and rush the five steps from the elevator to the emergency stair door, heaving in a breath to prepare. Not that a single breath will help with a twelve-floor descent.
The heavy metal door clangs shut behind me. The broken elevator is the last thing I need and the stairs, even at the best of times, are hazardous. They’re open to anyone who wants to usethem, residents and outsiders alike, and hardly any of the lights work. Over the years, the bulbs were smashed, stolen, or wore out. The stairs are always dark, thrum with the whispers of strangers, and stink of piss, sex, and cannabis.
I never understood how someone can own a building and then allow it to fall to shit. Particularly a building like Olive Tower which must make a fortune in rental income. Sure, the rent is lower than it would be in any other district, but we still pay through the nose for poorly kept apartments in the seedy side of town.
