How I Deal

Carmen~
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Like I said, a year ago mom left because dad was a dead-beat and she couldn't take much more of him. Dad was really depressed when she left and started drinking. He moped around the house for weeks, crying and drinking and I had to take care of him because he wouldn't take care of himself. Eventually, he got a bit better. He started job hunting and taking care of me and the apartment but he kept drinking. I guess he found some sort of refuge in alcohol and I didn't mind that much because he usually knew when he had too much, but it soon got out of control.

Dad stopped trying and started drinking more and more. Because he still hadn't gotten a new job I had to get three jobs to pay the rent and keep food in the apartment. I don't think dad knew that I was keeping the roof over our heads because he kept pestering me for money to go out with his friends to bars and buy alcohol and I couldn't refuse him no matter how much I wanted to, I just had to work over time and pawn some of my personal belongings to make up for the money loss.

I tried the best I could to convince dad to quit drinking but he'd just tell me I sounded like mom, "Always telling me what I should and shouldn't do! You're annoying me, so why don't you get out of my sight, eh?" His speech was always slurred and his breath always reeked of the bitter drink and it always made me retreat to my room.

I eventually gave up on him. It seemed impossible to get him to do anything that didn't involve him having a drink or two and he was getting worse and worse in his drunken state. He started yelling at me for no reason what-so-ever and he tells me what a worthless piece of shit I was and that mom should have taken me with her because he can't stand the sight of my face. I didn't take any of it personally though; I knew he was just too drunk to know what he was really saying. After he finished insulting me he'd pass out on the couch with a bottle or can still in his hand and I'd get a blanket from his room and wrap him in it before going to bed myself.

In the mornings I'd get him something for the hangover I knew he'd have when he woke up before heading off to school. I never once got a "Thank you" for that, but I never really expected him to give me one. When I'd come home I'd find him still sitting on the couch were I left him that morning, only he was drunk yet again and cursing at me about something. Anything.

Then one night after working over-time I stumbled in a little after midnight and he was sitting by the door like a dog, waiting for me. The first words out of his mouth were: "Where the fuck have you been?!" I was shocked that he'd been concerned about me enough to wait up for me, but I was more shocked when the back of his hand collided with the side of my face and sent me flying back off my feet. I hadn't expected anything like that and I was too lost in the initial shock to notice the throbbing pain in my cheek or the hand that grabbed me by my shirt collar and tossed me across the room before coming down to strike me again and again and again… This was the first time that dad had even shown this violent side of him and the first time I'd ever experienced being beaten. When he was finally tired he slumped himself down on the couch and left me, a trembling heap of forming bruises and tears, on the floor of the living room. I stayed there for a while because my legs wouldn't cooperate. The soft snoring coming from the couch told me the old man had fallen asleep and this was my chance to make my way safely to my room without being attacked again. I practically crawled to my room after a failed attempt of standing just brought me back down to my knees.

When I got to my room I hurried inside and locked the door behind me, scared he might wake up and come after me again. I'd managed to strip my clothes off and inspect the purple marks that sat at the surface at my skin. They could be easily concealed, so I wouldn't have to explain to anyone how I got them. The bruise forming on my face, however, I'd have to deal with. I decided I could come up with an easy enough excuse and get away with it. I crawled into bed, not bothering to shower and fell asleep.

The next morning I was in an extreme amount of pain. Every inch of me was screaming out in pain like I'd been hit by an 18 wheeler. My legs started working again, but it hurt too much to walk. I made my way to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The bruises had all gotten darker and hurt worse when I touched them than they did the night before. I splashed cold water on my face to wash the sleep away then rummaged through my medicine cabinet looking for something to ease the pain that was shooting through my body. At the time I didn't really care what was what. I grabbed all the bottles I saw and dumped one or two of each into my hand before throwing them down my throat and washing them down with the metallic tasting water from the sink.

I didn't know what some of those pills did but I figured one of them had to be a painkiller and would make me feel better soon, and I was right. I didn't bother taking a shower that morning either and just threw on a clean pair of clothes before sneaking past my sleeping father, who had fallen from the couch and onto the floor, and hurried off to school.

I know shoving a bunch a pills into my system wasn't the greatest idea in the world and for most of the day I was paranoid that I might suddenly have a seizure or drop dead from ingesting all of them but I couldn't ignore the fact that I felt great even after having the shit beat out of me the night before.

After school I went to work and from work I tried to decide if I should take my time getting home, because I wasn't ready to face my father again or if I should hurry before I was late again and I'd have to relive last night.

I ran.

I ran as fast as I could to get to the crappy apartment I called home with the drunken bastard inside I called dad. I busted though the door to our apartment a little after 10 and he was waiting for me again. At first he was happy to see me and told me how much he missed me and how lonely he was while I was gone. I could smell the liquor on his breath but I assumed he only had a little to drink since he seemed so mellow. Then he caught sight of the bruise on my cheek and grabbed me. He asked me how I got it, if I'd been fighting. He didn't remember backhanding me 22 hours ago. I wondered if he'd remembered anything from last night and when I hadn't answered him he hit me again. He said he'd teach me a lesson about getting into fights and he assaulted me the way he'd did before. I tried my best to protect my face so I wouldn't end up with another bruise or a black eye that I'd have to explain to anyone the next day.

It was the same. When he got tired of raising his hand to hit me he fell back onto the couch and fell asleep. I was in more pain than before because he hit me in most of the same places he already left bruises. My legs worked this time and I dragged myself to the bathroom and ripped the cabinet open before tossing pills to the back of my throat again. I sat on the floor for a while waiting for them to work but before I knew it I'd fallen asleep against the door. I was late for school the next morning and dad was pissed because I was hogging he bathroom and still home. He dragged me out of the bathroom, shoved me around a bit and told me how I was good for nothing and a bother to him, but he didn't hit me that morning.

However, the beatings continued. All it took was for dad to be a little drunk and for me to slip up a little. And after every encounter I'd run to the bathroom and inhale more pills. I had become dependent on the tiny capsules. When I started to run out I went straight for the pharmacy and grabbed every pain killer I could find but the cashier wouldn't let me buy them all. I took one bottle of aspirin and decided it'd have to do.

Cheap corner store pharmacy pills didn't cut it anymore though. I needed something stronger to make me forget about the ache I felt in my chest when I tried to breath, the pain that shot though my legs with every step I took, the tears that stung my eyes and clogged my throat.
One day I found myself behind the school with a group of guys who sold narcotics to students. I don't remember how I got back there with them or what they looked like but I remember they sold me enough pills to keep me from seeing them again for the rest of the school year.
I didn't care what the pills were, I only cared that they worked. They absorbed all the pain and made me feel happy inside but after a few minuets of feeling happy I'd feel pretty crappy. I wasn't in pain anymore but I felt sick. I thought that was just a side affect of the drugs and I wouldn't mind it as long as they made my body forget.

Two nights ago dad kicked the shit out of me for no reason at all, I guess he was just really drunk and angry and though I was the best candidate for releasing his frustration. When the old man made it to his bedroom for once instead on the couch I hurried to my room and locked the door before pushing my night stand against it. I fell to the floor and crawled under my bed and retrieved the sock that hid the bottle of assorted pills. The sight of them alone made me smile because I knew in a few minuets I wouldn't feel the throbbing in my head or the tenderness of my muscles. I opened the bottle, popped a few pills then sat there and waited. I felt weird that time, though. I felt better but I started laughing. I felt like someone was tickling my insides and I couldn't stop laughing. I doubled over and laid on the floor, face pressed into the carpet as I continued laughing. I clutched my stomach and closed my eyes then threw up. Everything I'd eaten that day along with the pills I'd just swallowed came back up in a greenish yellow mess. My stomach tightened as new pain jolted though it and kept me curled in a fetal position on the floor. I stayed there that night. My body refused to move even as the stench of the vomit burned my nose.

The next morning I cleaned up the mess I made, took a few more pills and locked myself in my room and slept the day away.
When dad found out I'd skipped school he did what he did best. He punched and kicked and spat how worthless I was. I hardly felt any of it though. He told me to go to my room and not to come back out because he couldn't stand the sight of me.

I went.

Took two pills.

And went back to sleep.
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