I’m tired of living this life, tired of being unable to feel okay or free because of my father and his alcoholic ways. It’s hurting me and it’s hurting him. I’m drowning in guilt, but I’m afraid to leave him to his own devices because he’ll end up dead. A part of me has had enough. I just want to get up and leave. I don’t want to be his caretaker for the rest of my life. I know he needs help, but I don’t know how to get him to accept help. For years I’ve begged and pleaded with him about it, but it’s done no good. He has to choose sobriety for himself, and until he does, all my arguments mean nothing to him.
It seems like there’s just no way out.
I close my eyes and start sinking into an exhausted sleep, when I hear the crashing sounds coming from my father’s room. I push to my feet quickly and rush towards it, only to see him throwing things around. He stops after a minute and clutches his head, then he starts destroying his room again.
“Dad,” I yell, rushing in. “What are you doing?”
He spins to me and his eyes are bloodshot. “My head is pounding. Where’s my alcohol, Quinn?”
“Dad, you nearly died today.”
He glares at me. “I was fine. Where’s my alcohol?”
My heart falls to pieces. “I got rid of it. You have to stop this.”
“That’s not up to you to decide,” he roars so loudly I flinch.
I take a weary step back as he spins and starts kicking things over again. He drops to his knees near his bedside table and jerks the drawer out. Then he reaches in and pulls out a bottle of whiskey that had been hidden there.
“Dad,” I say, coming closer. “You need to stop.”
He unscrews it with shaky, desperate hands. Then he tips his head back and starts swallowing it. My heart cracks wide open now, and pain lashes my body.
“Dad!” I cry, rushing towards him.
He spins on me, glaring. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Quinn. This is my house, understand?”
“No,” I yell. “This is our house. What you’re doing is dangerous and you’re going to kill yourself.”
“Stop telling me what to fucking do!” he roars.
Fear fills my veins. I’ve never seen him like this before. Never. He’s scaring me. I take a hesitant step forward.
“Dad, please, give me the bottle.”
“Will you just get the fuck out?” he barks.
“Dad, you have to stop this. Now.”
His eyes point daggers in my direction. “Who died and made you my fucking mother?”
That hurts. My mom died and made me his fucking mother, because he refuses to take care of himself.
“Mom died,” I whisper. “And instead of taking care of me the way you should, you turned to the bottle. I’m tired of it, Dad. I don’t want to have to do this.”
“Then don’t,” he barks, standing straighter and glaring at me. “Move out, Quinn. I don’t fucking care if you’re not here.”
Ouch, that hurts like hell. It hurts so bad a pained noise is ripped from my throat.
“You’d die without me here,” I whisper because my voice is too shaky to work.
He snorts and laughs loudly. “You’re so sure of that, then get out.”
I shake my head, blinking back my tears. “We’ll talk about this when you’re not so angry. Give me the bottle and get some sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he roars again. He’s never yelled at me like this before.
“Dad,” I try again. “You need to put that bottle down and go to bed.”
“Fuck you, Quinn.”
“Dad,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re done for the night.”
He spins and snarls at me, “No, I’m not.”
“You are!”
Before I know what’s happening he’s raising his arm and roaring, “No, I’m fucking not. Get off my back!”
Then he launches the bottle across the room at me. I don’t have time to duck and it hits me in the temple. I cry out in pain and stumble backwards as it smashes all over the floor. Whiskey sprays up my body and blood trickles down my head. I stumble a few steps and then a burning pain shoots through my foot and I scream. I glance down to see blood gushing out onto the carpet. I stepped on the bottle.
I manage to pull myself away from the glass, but my heart is tearing into a thousand tiny pieces. I look up with tears running down my face at my father who is still panting with rage. He has no remorse over what he’s done; he’s so far gone he doesn’t even realize he’s hurt me. He doesn’t care. Something explodes in my chest, a pain I’ve not felt before in my life.
Pure devastation.
I know I have to get out of there, and I have to do it now. I hop out of the room, towards the front door. Trying to keep it together. Dad growls something at me, but I don’t hear what it is. I have to go. I can’t be near him. He … frightened me. Pain, fear and hurt mix in my chest and I can feel the panic rising. I manage to get myself into my car, and drive into the next street over before I pull over and let it all go.
I cry.
I cry so hard my body shakes and silent sobs rip from my throat because I am too far gone for them to have a sound.
My dad tried to hurt me. He was … violent.
I’ve never been so afraid in my life, never felt such hurt. I clutch the steering wheel and let it all out. It pours from me in waves, exploding from my body like an eruption of agony. When I manage to pull back the tears enough to think, I realize I don’t really have anywhere to go. If I show up like this to Lenny or Oscar, they will lose it. Jace won’t know how to deal with me like this. That leaves only one more person I trust. Tazen.
I pull out my phone and call him a few times, but he doesn’t answer. Not in the right mental state to push, I decide to go somewhere I feel safe. The garage. I put my car into drive, swipe my tears and drive slowly the entire way over there. It’s dark and quiet when I get in, so I unlock the door and slip inside. There’s nowhere for me to sleep, but there’s a shower and a toilet, and I can find some old towels to lie on until I can get hold of someone. I can’t go home, even though I’m so worried about what Dad will do if I’m not there. How sad is that? I’m worried about him when he threw a damned bottle at my head.
I decide to send Lenny a text, coming up with some lie about why I can’t go home. He’ll arrive and probably just think Dad’s drunk again and help him to bed. He doesn’t know Dad went to the hospital today. I don’t want him to know it, either. He doesn’t deserve that extra stress.
Q—Hey Len. I have to work extra late tonight, so is there any chance you can check on Dad, make sure he’s home and in bed?
He replies a minute later.
L—Sure sweetheart.
I breathe a sigh of relief, and then let myself into the office. I’m trying not to think of what happened, because every time I do, it hurts like hell. I just need to focus and figure out what I’m going to do next. First, I need to check my foot and make sure it’s not stitches-worthy. I hop over to the cabinets and I pull out the first-aid kit, then I flick on a light.
I turn my foot and scrunch my nose up. It’s not deep, thank god, but it’s long. Running nearly half the length of my foot. I get to work putting strips on it to hold the skin together, and then I patch it up. Once I’m done with that, I walk into the bathroom and look at my face. My temple is swelling and the beginning of a bruise is forming. How the hell will I explain that one away?
I shower with my foot poking out, and then I find one of Tazen’s work shirts on the shelves. I pull it on and then make a bed on the floor with towels, a sheet and my purse as a pillow. It’s horrible and uncomfortable, but it’s safe. I lie down and try Tazen once more, but he still doesn’t answer. I’ll stay here until he does. As I wind down, my thoughts start invading. My throat gets tight and more tears spring to my eyes as I relive what went down.
My dad tried to hurt me.
My dad … who was once my hero.