Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
I hate this house.
And I hate what awaits me inside.
Every Saturday, I have to confront my father. He’s an embarrassment, a poor excuse of a man, and can barely take care of himself. I pay the bills on time. There’s only ever food in the refrigerator because of me. And he’s the reason I have to work three jobs.
My father makes enough money working for the gas company that I don’t qualify for grants. But he spends it on beer and cards—the two loves of his life. I received a partial scholarship for my grades, and it helps, but not enough to make my tuition more affordable.
As I push the front door open, my stomach lurches at the smell of cigarettes. The smoky scent fills my nostrils the further I make my way inside. I want to run away screaming. But I force myself to do my daughterly duty.
This is my obligation.
He’s my responsibility.
The once-white walls are now a yellowish brown, the carpets frayed and scorched in various places. My nostrils burn from the thick cloud of smoke in the air. I hate this fucking house.
“Wake up, Jim,” I yell at my father, who’s passed out drunk on the living room couch with a lit cigarette between his fingers. It’s burning at the ends, the ash so long it’s fallen onto the carpet. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
My anger surges through me, coursing through my veins like poison. He turns me into a person I don’t like. I turn into a raging monster every time he’s near. Seeing him unshaven, dirty, and in clothes with stains repulses me.
How is this man related to me?
How did I come from him?
When I was ten, the doctor diagnosed my mom with cancer. My dad fell apart after she died and abandoned me when I needed him most. His lack of parenting forced me to grow up faster. I lost both of my parents the day my mother died. Except this bastard is still alive, still breathing by some miracle.
I drop the groceries on the coffee table, the cans at the bottom of the bags waking my asshole father from a sound sleep. He blinks, his eyes closing for a few seconds before opening them again. I have the same denim blue eyes, but his are bloodshot and glassy. He rubs the sleep from them, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on the arm of the couch.
“Savannah?”
He slurs his words, my mother’s name slipping from his chapped lips.
“No, it’s me. Your daughter… Samantha.”
He blinks again, attempting to sit up straight. Slumping against the arm of the couch, he presses his palm to the side of his face to keep his head up. “Oh, Sam. I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries once more to get up from the couch and fails.
It’s pathetic.
He’s pathetic.
I shake my head in disgust. “It’s Saturday, Jim. You forgot. Again. Clean yourself up. You look homeless and smell like you are, too.”
I haven’t called him Dad in so many years it doesn’t feel natural to me. Every week, I hope he’ll be different, wake up from his mental prison, and get his act together. But the day has yet to come. After spending over ten years in constant mourning, he’s never shown a sign of change. He doesn’t want to be better. Jim drowns his sorrows in a bottle and surrounds himself with other degenerates.
My father stares at his stained white t-shirt, gripping the cotton in his hand. He gives it a once-over, realization scrolling across his withered face. He’s fifty and looks almost as old as my grandfather. Honestly, they could pass for twins. It’s depressing to see him like this. A mixture of sadness and anger bubbles up inside my chest. I want to cry, scream, and curse him out.
But what good will it do?
Nothing gets through to him.
Staring down at him, I throw my hands on my hips, seething mad, black dots filling my vision. “Did you go to work this week?”
He scratches the dark stubble on his chin, confused and disoriented. I doubt he has a clue what day it is, which means he can’t remember the last day he worked. I’m sure he’s already out of vacation and sick days.
Sick to my stomach, I turn away, unable to look at him. “There better be enough money in the checking account for me to pay the bills.” My words are like venom stinging my lips. “I can’t work any more hours than I already have this month to support you and your addictions.”
He doesn’t process a single word I’ve said, a blank stare on his face as he reaches for the pack of Marlboro Reds on the coffee table in front of him. After lighting a cigarette, he sinks back against the dirty couch we’ve had since I was a child. It’s the same color as the walls, stained from age and smoke. With the cigarette pressed between his lips, Jim glances up at the ceiling, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.