“Urk…Hm? Ugh…Oh…Oh, me head’s a throbbin’…Sor? Sorcha, where the hell are ya? Why’re the damn lights out?”
“Open yer freakin’ eyes, ya damn daft barrel ass. The sun’s brighter than our lights.”
The fully adult Irish man who lay limp on the couch groaned for a few moments before managing to push himself up by grabbing at the couch arm blindly with his hands, barely cracking his tired eyes open. He caught a glimpse of movement and focused on it.
“Sor, who else is ‘ere?”
“No one. Those stupid friends of yers left a couple of hours ago. They were hollerin’ at five in the fucking mornin’, so they probably went ta’ get some sleep. Finally.”
“Aye.” Sinead let himself drop back on the couch. “Screw the lot of ‘em. Ya cleaned up the beer yet?”
“Ya damn right I did. It was stickin’ up the whole house. Go take a shower—gotta do somethin’ ‘bout those sweaty clothes a yers.”
“Piss off. I ain’t in no hurry.”
Sorcha clicked her tongue as she averted her gaze.
“…Better get yer ass in the shower while we still got runnin’ water…”
Sinead frowned silently for a long moment before responding.
“What’s that suppose ta mean?”
“What do ya think? You already sank most a yer earning at the slots. And now a fucking beer party at yer own damn house? At least tell them fuckers to bring their own alcohol! We’ve got a debt the size a yer brother’s ego and yer squandering our savin’s! How’re we gonna pay for the bills next month? Sellin’ empty cans won’t be enough this time!”
“Ya talk like I ain’t workin’!” Sinead shot to his feet with a sudden burst of energy as his voice rose and his face turned red. “I got a job, you fuckin’ brat! Where do ya think most of our money comes from? Now that you’ve growin’ up, yer gonna try to tell me what to do with the money I earn?!”
Sorcha’s response was somewhat slow, surprised that he was actually sober enough to argue coherently with so much enthusiasm. Any normal daughter would have smartly backed off at that point. Diffusing the bomb was smartest—any argument at this point was only a waste of energy. Sorcha was fully aware of that fact. But she didn’t care to make the right decision. Her entire face contorted with anger as she shot to her own feet, kicking the stool she knocked over out of the way as she approached her taller and bigger father fearlessly.
“Yer damn right I’m gonna tell you what to do with it! Ya not listenin’, so what’s it matter to you? Are ya trying to make sure ya stay a bum workin’ at a factory?”
“Then try gettin’ a decent job! Yer puny part-time work with those gob shites ain’t bringing home shit! If ya got a respectable job—”
“Oh yeah, ‘cause being a drone at some factory is real respectable! I’m surprised I even got through school with the pay ya bring in! But now that that’s over, you seem more than happy to empty it down the drain! Maybe I should use me damn school smarts to become yer boss at that factory!”
“Go ahead and try! You ain’t got nothin’ ta lose, eh? I bet you’ll start drinkin’ a week in! But at least ya’ll be doin’ somethin’ with that pointless education I was forced ta give ya!”
“How about ya work to get yerself promoted, then?”
“This again? As if I could just decide to do that, ya little shit!”
“No wonder mum left ya. Don’t got an ounce a ambition in ya beer bellied gut—”
The sound of shattered glass pierced the air and silence fell, save for the sound of a liquid dripping to the floor. Sinead’s face was contorted with rage, the shattered narrow end of a beer bottle in hand. He’d grabbed at the closest one to him, and since Sorcha had thrown out all the empty ones, that left only a full, unopened one. The blood that drooled from Sorcha’s forehead blended in with her fiery red hair and mixed with the alcohol that soaked her head.
If Sinead was mad, Sorcha was burning with fury—almost literally. Her eyes seemed to light up with the flames of her anger, as if real flames were boiling deep in her chest.
Without a word, Sorcha grabbed a random shirt off of the couch, draped it over her head, and stomped out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.