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The air in my lungs turns stale. I try not to show my fear, but it's impossible. I lift my chin and order, "Untie me now."
He chuckles. "Do ya think ya have any control or power over this situation? I can assure ya, ya have none."
"Da, please," I beg again as more tears fall.
Pity fills my father's face, and my gut sinks further.
How can he not help me?
The thug hands a bottle of whiskey to Da. "Here ya go, Malachy. Drink up, old man."
Da takes it.
"Da, don't drink that," I beg.
He doesn't listen. But he never has. He takes several large mouthfuls and then wipes his mouth as if relieved. "Thank you."
The thug nods and pats him on the back. "The bosses are on their way. They'll be happy that you're finally living up to your end of the bargain."
Da guiltily glances at me, then back at the thug. "Aye." He takes another sip of alcohol.
The thug takes the gag and forces it back into my mouth.
I choke, and tears continue falling.
Da stares at me.
The thug leaves the room, and Da goes back to the cot. He scratches his head, staring at the floor, then drinks more.
I make a loud noise, trying to scream, "Da," but it's muffled. I do it over and over until he finally looks at me.
He states, "I'm sorry, Maeve. You'll get used to it though."
Get used to it? What's he talking about?
My tears soak my shirt, but I glare at my father. He's the man who I've always protected. The one I've loved and sacrificed for so he was always safe. I put my life on hold because he couldn't care for himself.
It finally hits me that Tynan's always been right. Da's never deserved me, my love, or anything I did for him. Yet I still wonder how he can sit there and not do anything. I try to speak again, but I can't.
Da steps in front of me and removes the gag. He asserts, "I can only keep this off so long. What is it you're trying to say?"
I sob harder. "Please, Da. Please. I've always loved ya. I know ya love me. Please," I beg, even though, for the first time in my life, I'm unsure if he does love me.
He sighs and then holds the bottle of whiskey to my lips. "Ya want a sip? It'll make it better."
I turn my mouth away, disgusted. I hate whiskey; the smell, taste, and sight of it. I always have because he's always chosen it above everything, including me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering how he chose it above Ma as well. I've never admitted that to myself, but it's true.
He shakes the bottle in front of me. "Aye, come on, lass. Don't be so hard on yourself. Have a sip."
"Get that away from me," I shriek.
Confusion fills his face. He scratches his head again. "Okay, suit yourself. More for me." He takes another long drink. His hand shakes. It's not the first time I've seen it. It's nerve damage from all his years of excessive drinking.
I get ahold of my emotions and demand, "Da, I want to know what you've done. What's in this contract? And who did ya promise me to?"
He stares at me, not answering.
