Chapter 9 #2
“Yeah. I mean, he gets bad but not that bad. She sounded scared but my father has never been violent. He’s gotten angry and lashed out but not physically.”
“Well I’m even more glad I made you take me now.”
“Me too.” I pause, guilt rushing through me. “Just, please don’t judge him. He’s been through so much and…”
“You think I would judge?”
“He’s not himself. When he’s sober, he’s wonderful.
I mean I love him. But when he’s drunk, he’s someone else.
Something else. A monster. It sounds…I don’t know, crazy, but when he’s really bad I don’t see him as him anymore.
It’s like looking right into the devil’s eyes.
” I don’t mention that sometimes I’m so filled with rage that I want to hurt him when he’s in that state.
I want to hit him and shake him and beg for my father to come back.
I’m just so fucking angry, it’s almost like whatever is infecting him is infecting me.
“I get it,” he says. “Believe me, you’re not alone.”
I thought he would make a bee pun with that but this isn’t funny anymore.
This is terrifying.
By the time we eventually reach Lancaster, dull desert stretching out as far as the eye can see, I’m a wreck. I can’t even speak. I’ve grown silent as we pull into his neighborhood.
"Is this it?" Laz asks, leaning over to get a better look at the house we’ve stopped outside of.
There isn't much to look at. My father’s place is on a corner lot and there's a small patch of brown grass out front. Behind him is a cement wall lined with barbed wire which separates his place from the junkyard on the other side. The mobile home hasn’t been mobile for a long time and it's one-level, the paint faded, the curtains always drawn.
At least the curtains are new though, gauzy blue ones that I picked up from IKEA a couple of months ago.
Slowly, very slowly, I've tried to bring some life to his place.
I'd love to have the time to paint the house at some point, maybe a cheery yellow color. Something to make it seem alive.
But none of that seems important right now. I don't feel like I'm staring at my father's house but the dwelling of someone else. A monster I'm afraid of.
I know I should stop describing him as such because he really is a good man at heart.
But at times like this, when I know everything good in him is dead and buried under years of horrible, unending guilt, he becomes everything I'm afraid of.
In some ways he's like a zombie. You know why zombie movies are so absolutely terrifying?
Because people's loved ones get turned. They get bitten, they get infected, they cease to be human.
They turn and become something to fear. And what can you do but kill them?
What choice do you have? Otherwise, you'll get killed yourself or become exactly like them.
"Take all the time in the world," Laz says softly.
I glance at him, wanting him to be my courage. I feel stronger with him here yet it's almost made it scarier, knowing he's going to see this world through my eyes.
"I'm ready. Let's go."
Maybe it won't be that bad.
We get out of the car and I notice the nearest neighbor across the street is standing on her front porch, broom in hand, staring at us suspiciously. I give her a wave, my way of letting her know everything is going to be okay, and she doesn't move, doesn't say anything.
I have to wonder how loud it's been or what he's been doing if she's noticing.
We head up the steps. The screen door is half off on its hinges. The main door is open a crack. If I didn't know any better I would say that this looked like the beginning of a crime scene.
It makes me pause, I'll give it that. Laz reaches down and holds my hand, squeezing it so tight it almost hurts. I'm not sure if it's more for me or for him.
Laz holds open the screen door and I push the front door in gently. "Dad?" I call out. "It's me, Marina. Your daughter."
Silence.
I open the door wider. Dust motes float in a lone sunbeam that's made its way through one of the curtains. Other than that, the house is dim. Brown carpet, brown fake wood walls. It stinks. Like, horrible. Vomit, piss, who knows what else.
I cover my nose with my hand and take in a few breaths before I say, "Dad?" again.
Laz is behind me, stepping in flush against my back. His hand is now at my waist, his grip firm, letting me know he's here. My rock.
Then I hear a moan from the living room.
I walk in, my shoes squishing on the wet carpet, and look around the corner.
The cat, Pickles, sees us and immediately runs off to the kitchen, disappearing through the cat door.
My father is sprawled out on the floor, face down. Vomit beside him in a puddle, in his hair. The backs of his pants are stained with shit.
I gasp, instinctively turning toward Laz, trying to run.
But Laz doesn't move an inch, he’s a wall keeping me in.
"He needs help," he manages to say.
I know he does. God, I know he does.
I nod, trying to steel myself, and turn back around.
"Dad?" I walk over to him and get down to a crouch, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"Who is there?" he mumbles, his muscles stiffening under my touch.
"Dad, it's Marina. It's me."
"Fuck do you want?"
So he's angry. I was hoping that maybe he was so inebriated that he would be easy to deal with. That we could prop him up and clean him off and he'd be as limp and sedate as a ragdoll. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
"I came by to check on you," I say, trying to keep my voice light and steady.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he growls and lifts his head to look at me.
But it's not my father anymore. A blackness resides in his gaze, coming from a pit inside him, a pit that fuels nothing but hate and misery. It's evil.
"Dad," I say softly, trying to smile. "I'm just here to help. Let's get you cleaned up."
I grab his arm to help him up but he shoves me away instead so I fall backward onto my butt.
"Marina," Laz says, coming to me.
"Who are you?" my father asks, glaring at him.
He's met Laz a few times, he knows who he is.
Laz pauses and then helps me to my feet. "I'm Marina's friend. We're just here to help you with whatever you need."
"Help me?" my father roars. He rolls over on his side and tries to get to his feet, his darkened eyes never leaving us, his arm waving wildly for the coffee table for support. "Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here and helping me. Both of you fucking high and mighty. Just get out. Leave!"
I take in a deep breath but I'm shaking. "We'll go once we know you're okay."
He gets to his feet, swaying. My father is a big guy.
Just as tall as Laz and twice as wide. I can feel Laz stiffen beside me.
No one wants to deal with a big drunk guy who is unpredictable.
Even though I don't fear for my safety, I guess I can understand why my aunt would, why anyone would.
God, I miss my father so much, not this stranger that's standing in front of me.
"You're a fucking witch, aren't you?" my father slurs at me, his voice coming out low, almost demonic. "You and your fucking too good for this world ways. You think you’re so fucking good huh, helping your poor old dad. You bitch."
"Hey," Laz says coming to my defense but I immediately elbow him to shut up. He can't provoke this beast, not now.
"Dad, I heard Margaret was here," I tell him, ignoring the insult, not letting it hurt. "She was going to call the cops."
"Call the cops then, I don't care. That's what you always wanted isn't it. Want me locked up for everything I've done. Huh, you fucking bitch."
"Mr. Owens," Laz's voice booms. "That's not how you talk to your daughter."
"She's not my daughter, she's nothing, she's no one," he says, his eyes still on me, looking harder and deeper than ever before. Then he blinks and looks at Laz in surprise, like he's just realized it was him talking. "Who the fuck? You get the fuck out."
He stumbles forward to take a swing at Laz but my father is slow and Laz is fast. Laz ducks backward and I immediately jump in front of my dad, giving him a hard shove in the chest.
"Fuck you!" I scream at my father. I shove him again. "Fuck you, you fucking MONSTER!"
I scream so loudly, it's painful. It's ripped out of me, pulled from somewhere deep and all the anger and all the rage is now flowing out of me, unchecked and wild and dangerous.
I start pounding my fist into my father, into his chest, his arms, his shoulder.
I want to hit his face so badly, I want to strike and kick and hurt him. I want to hurt him.
Hurt him.
Hurt him.
"Fuck you, I hate you!" I scream, tears now coming like a flood. "I hate you! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!"
The last words I scream so loud that I nearly pass out, I can feel my words shaking my skull, vibrating throughout the room. Everyone seems to freeze. My ears ring.
I stare at my father as I’m gasping for breath and he's taken a step backward, staring at me with an open mouth. I pray, I pray, I pray I see my father inside somewhere. Just a glimpse, just a flicker, just a hint of the man he was, the father I know he still is.
But there's nothing. His eyes are glazed and they don't belong to him. He stares at me in complete confusion.
I.
Break.
Down.
"Hey," Laz says gently, grabbing my arm and pulling me away. "Come on, let's go."
"No," I say to him as he leads me out the door and down the path to the car. I can hardly breathe, I'm sobbing so hard it feels like my lungs are being wrung out. "No. No, I need to help him." I try to move back toward the house but his hold on me is strong.
"I will help him," he says. "You sit in the car and you stay here."
"No, Laz, he'll fight you, you can't, you can't."
He opens the car door and gently pushes me down so I'm in the seat. "He will not fight me. I will not fight him. This isn't like that."
"You don't have experience with someone like that, he's not himself, he—”