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A line of white powder was on the coffee table, unfinished. Dad had gotten his check today, which meant he'd gone on a binge. Drugs, alcohol; whatever he could get his hands on. The mail was also sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up and sorted through it, grumbling myself when I saw what was probably a shut-off notice from the electric company buried in with it all.
Dad hadn't opened it, he never did look at the bills. He didn't do responsibility very well. I sighed and grabbed the envelope tearing it open, my eyes nearly popping out of my head when I saw the amount owed. It was going to take pretty much every last dime I had on me to keep the lights on.
At least tomorrow was payday, because we needed money to get some food in the house.
“Goodnight, Dad,” I groaned.
My body hurt from working a double. I was thankful for the hours, God knew, I needed them. But, I wasn't so thankful for the pain in my legs and feet. Working twelve hours straight at a bar, where the only breaks when you got gave you just enough time to run to the bathroom for a quick pee and nothing more enough to wear me out and make me hurt from head to toe.
I needed to sleep for at least twelve hours to feel human again, but that never happened. Sleep was a luxury I was not afforded in this life.
Even though I'd just come off a double at the bar, I had to pick up another shift at the diner. It was an afternoon shift, at least, so I wouldn't have to get up super early. It was only a five-hour shift too, which made it more bearable, and the tips were badly needed. Working two jobs, back-to-back, made me feel like I was twice my age already. I wasn't even twenty-five yet, and there I was, struggling to even get through a day without everything on me hurting like hell. I felt like a hunched over old crone, not a girl who was supposed to be in the prime of her life. No, instead of being out, partying with friends, and enjoying my youth, I had to work ungodly hours just to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.
My father snorted in his sleep, and I turned toward him, tamping down the wave of anger that washed over me. I remembered a time when we were a happy family. Loving. That was before Mom died. A part of me held onto the dream that my father would one day find his way out of his own darkness and pain and come back to me. It was the only reason I kept caring for him all this time.
My mom's death had done a number on us both and we both handled our grief in our own ways. Unlike my father, I didn't turn to drugs and booze to numb the pain. To ease my own suffering, I apparently just had to stay busy. To numb my own pain, I worked my ass off, pushing myself until I was exhausted and on the edge of dropping, too tired to even focus on anything but getting through the day.
I opened my bedroom door and stepped inside, kicking my shoes off and stripping my grimy shirt off me. Closing the door behind me, I walked through my bedroom to my dresser, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes were ringed by dark circles and my skin seemed extra pale. The eyeliner around my eyes was dark and starting to run.
I normally hated to wear makeup but working it at the bar made it almost mandatory. We had to look sexy – and in the case of certain girls, borderline slutty – in order to earn our tips. We had to doll ourselves up and put ourselves on display, so all the drunks could hit on us, pretending they had a chance to date us, just to keep the booze – and cash – flowing.
I grabbed a makeup removing wipe from my dresser and wiped away all the layers of gunk caked upon my skin. When I looked at it, I grimaced, as the wipe was mostly black from mascara and eyeliner. It looked darker than a piece of coal by the time I threw it away, but at least, the face looking back at me in the mirror looked more like my actual self.
The
face looking back at me was something I was more comfortable with, at least. I stared into my large brown eyes and at the chocolate brown hair that fell in waves around my face and shoulders. I looked a lot like my mom these days, and as much as it hurt me to see her face staring back at me in the mirror, it also made me proud.
My mother had been a beautiful woman – easily one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. I thought to look like her at all was a good thing.
I wiggled out of my short black skirt and left it on the floor near the dresser. I'd pick it up later, I was too tired to take it to the laundry room tonight. I was going to have wash it tomorrow to have it ready for my next shift. At least I didn't have to work at the bar tomorrow since they were closed. Thank God for Sundays.
I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Slipping into my comfy clothes always made me feel better, more at peace with the world. I desperately needed a shower, but my body craved rest first. Working the last seven days straight, some days up to twelve hours, had taken its toll on me. I was sure I smelled, and I definitely felt grimy, but I was about to drop from exhaustion, and besides, it's not like I was trying to impress anybody. I flipped off the light, crawled into bed, and collapsed, letting out a groan and feeling a rush of pleasure that rivaled any orgasm I'd ever had.
Even laying down though, my body ached all over. The pleasure of finally getting off my feet didn't last, as my legs cramped up on me. I stretched them out, tossed, turned, and couldn't get comfortable. I was beyond eager to fall asleep but was in too much physical pain to do so. Rolling over onto my back, I stared up at the ceiling and let out a frustrated growl.
This was my life now. Once upon a time, I'd had dreams of going to college. I had thoughts of being more than just a bartender or waitress. But, there I was doing both just to survive with no way out of that rat race in sight.
All just to keep my father alive.
I sighed, the tears welling in my eyes making them sting. It felt like the tables had been turned on me, and I was no longer the child, reliant on her parents to care for her. Now, it seemed like I was the mother, taking care of my dad's needs. Making sure we both had a roof over our head and food to eat. All the while, he blew what money he had on whatever he could drink or smoke, choosing his motorcycle buddies over his own daughter. It shamed me to admit, but there was a small part of me that hated him for it.
Sometimes, I wondered why I stayed, why I put up with it. It was complicated, but the easy answer was, I didn't know any other way. He was my family, my father, and he was the last person I had left in this world. Even though common sense told me otherwise, my heart still wanted to believe he could change, that he could come back from that edge he was teetering on. My heart still wanted to believe he'd be my dad again someday.
With years of evidence that he wasn't interested in changing, I found myself believing it less and less. There was a small flickering of belief somewhere inside of my brain that told me that man was long gone, that he wouldn't be coming back. That little voice whispered to me that all that left was the empty shell of the man he used to be, and there was no longer any more to him.
My mind swirling and my heart hurting, I finally slipped off to sleep, my body giving itself over to the exhaustion. In my dreams, my mother was alive again, and my dad was my dad again.
Only in my dreams did I ever feel like I truly belonged anywhere. Only in my dreams, was I truly happy.
~ooo000ooo~
Groaning and wishing I could sleep for the next three days, I rolled over and checked the clock. It was just after eleven in the morning. I had an hour to get ready for my shift at the diner. My body wasn't ready to get out of bed yet, but I forced myself to roll over and stand up. My muscles ached and creaked like I was ten or fifteen years older than I actually was.
Still in my t-shirt and shorts, I padded out of my bedroom and into the living room. Dad wasn't on the couch, which was rare for him. I walked through the living room and into the kitchen, calling out for him.
“Dad? You here?”
Nothing. Only silence.
