Ran Dry
I remember when my father told me he was going to run himself dry. He was going to stop drinking, stop getting drunk with his friends every other night and actually come home and be the father he promised me he would be.
That was like what, six years ago? I was around twelve when my mother left, and he started drinking the year after he realized she wasn’t going to come back. The first few months it was a beer every week on those weekends where I went over a friend’s house.
I’m pretty sure now that he drinks a new bottle every hour. I’m surprised he isn’t dead from all the alcohol in his system.
But then again, I haven’t spoken to him since I moved out for good. The first time I tried to move out- I was 18, an adult mind you- he threw a fit that would rival a toddler’s. Forced me to move back in, threatened me even.
I could have listened- I should have. My mistake was going back, moving into that home with the messy carpet and the rooms that never got rid of the musty beer stench they’ve been stained with. It smelled like my father had puked in every single room after I moved out and knowing him; he most likely did that in retaliation, knowing he’d find a way to get me back in the house.
And even after all my father put me through; I don’t know why I’m standing in front of the damn house at this moment. I wasn’t called here, I wasn’t drawn here like I swallowed a magnet and the house had an opposite charge to pull me in.
I don’t know why I’m standing in front of the house.
There’s dead rose of sharon along the trim of the house, the naked ladies that I planted years ago still blooming after all this time along the steps to the porch. Dead patches of grass gave the yard a spotted look, causing me to turn my nose up.
It’s probably a good chance that my dad moved out of this home. The yard was somewhat maintained, and the way alcohol flows through my father’s bloodstream it would be unbelivable if he was responsible for this. It would be hard to believe if he actually got off of his ass and actually moved.
I wasn’t actively seeking him out. I wouldn’t know what to say to him if he even was still alive.
The longer I stood there, the more I was noticing how I wanted to believe my father was actually dead. I wasn’t even denying it to myself either- I would rather him be dead than to talk to him and ‘fix’ his problem. That’s not something I want to go through.
The house started to look even more depressing. The color seemed to fade from my eyes are I stared more.
I don’t know how I got myself to stop looking. I ended up back at my home and on the couch. The blank empty stare still occupied my face, my eyes heavy and dull.
It’s like my body was able to move- I was physically awake and all- but my mind was still asleep. As if I don’t sleep a lot already.
I don’t know how I get up, but eventually I am in the bathroom. I’m washing my face, using the cold water to hopefully shake me out of this funk that I can’t get out of. I contemplated sticking my head in the freezer.
I reach for the towel beside me, and scream as I find another warm hand where I placed my towel before. I open my eyes, startled to death- and my heart won’t settle down.
There’s nothing there. My eyes burn with the soap that I missed washing off, causing me to squeeze my eyes shut in pain.
My heart races, the paranoia extremely evident as I rub the towel violently on my face so I can open my eyes quickly again. The room was as bright as it was before, nothing flickering like lights usually do in horror movies.
The mirror was blank as I stared into it. My eyes were wide with fear, my skin a pale white. I watch myself swallow thickly.
There’s nothing there.
