14. Nash
14
NASH
1977
14 years old.
D ad comes home drunk more than he does sober. Whenever he stumbles through the door late in the evening, he always has a beer in hand, left over from drinking at the bar with friends, and his eyes are bloodshot. It’s better when Mom isn’t home because he likes to start fights with her. More often than not it will lead to a screaming match, and sometimes the cops get called by the neighbors.
I tend to stay in my room when they fight downstairs. They like to pretend I’m not in the house anyway, so I may as well act that way, too. It’s easier, really. I don’t want to get caught up in their mess, especially when they have been drinking or doing whatever else it is they do when I’m not around.
But tonight, I made the mistake of watching television in the living room and losing track of time after eating dinner by myself—like I do most nights.
The front door swings open, and Dad stumbles inside with a beer in hand. The crisp rays from the full moon shine in behind him, illuminating his dark wavy hair that curls around his ears. The strands are greasy and flat, just like his mood most days.
But for some strange reason, when his blue eyes meet mine from across the room, he smiles. I don’t recall a time my father has ever smiled at me in the fourteen years I’ve been alive. The action makes me uncomfortable.
I shift my body on the couch and watch as my father stumbles toward the worn beige couch. He plops down on the cushion beside me and grunts loudly. He reeks of BO and alcohol. As much as I want to cover my nose, I don’t because it’ll only make him mad at me. And for the first time in my life, my father isn’t looking at me like I’m a stranger in his house.
“Nash,” he says lowly. His lips wrap around the bottle and he tips his head back slightly to consume the liquid. He wipes the back of his mouth and glances over at me. The light illuminating from the small television screen casts a shadow across his face. “Is your mother home?”
I shake my head. “N-no, she’s at work.”
Dad nods and turns to look straight ahead. “Good. Good.”
We sit in silence for a painfully long time, neither of us speaking. I don’t know what to say to him and I’m sure he doesn’t know what to say to me. Either way, sitting on the couch with my father brings me a joy I didn’t know I had been searching for. I hope this feeling will last forever, even if we sit in silence.
Dad runs a hand down the side of his face and chugs the last of the beer. He throws the bottle across the room, the glass shattering against the wall.
I jump in surprise but hold back the gasp threatening to spill from my lips. All I can do is stare at Dad as he grips the material of his trousers, his chest heaving with each ragged breath he takes.
“Your mother is a whore, Nash,” he finally says, licking his chapped lips. “A fucking whore. I’m sure you’ve seen the men she brings home.” He chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “She thinks I don’t know about what she is doing behind my back, but I know everything. Everything!”
My heart pounds harshly against my ribcage and a sweat breaks out across my upper lip. It’s not unusual for Dad to talk about Mom this way, especially when they get into an argument, but I don’t understand why he’s telling me all of this.
His head snaps to the left to look at me. His bloodshot eyes meet mine as he sneers. “Every time I look at you, all I can see is her . You are a constant reminder of why I drink. It’s to cope with the fact that she ruined my life when she had you. You both ruined my fucking life and now I’m stuck living with a whore wife and a useless son.”
I stare back at him. It’s all I can do. I knew my father hated me, but didn’t know to what extent. I don’t know how my being born ruined his life, but I’m certainly not going to ask, especially when he’s this upset.
Dad chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. “God, I fucking hate my life.” He stands from the couch, his knees wobbling beneath him as he does. He points to the shattered glass on the floor. “Clean this up. I don’t want to see it when I come back from the kitchen.”
Knowing his track record of using his fists when he’s angry, I jump up from the couch as soon as he leaves the living room.
In the darkness of the night, I use my hands to scoop up the shattered glass. Pain shoots up my arms each time a slice of glass digs into my skin, drawing blood. But I ignore the searing pain and continue to sweep the shards into my hands as droplets of blood land on the rotting hardwood floor.
The sticker of the Budweiser bottle stares back at me from the beer-soaked floor, the unshed tears in my eyes reflecting in the glass.
Over the years, I’ve learned to bury my feelings because of my parents and the things they say to me. I feared if I didn’t, I might break. I don’t want that to happen.I can’t be weak.
I refuse to be weak.
One day, I plan to leave this house of horrors, so no matter what happens, I cannot break. I won’t .