I woke up to the dark. A loud crash from downstairs snapped me to attention. I didn't need to turn on the light; I wasn't surprised. I already knew what was happening and who it was.
As I descended the stairs, his shadow loomed against the wall, a familiar figure contorted in the act of smashing mugs and plates. He was rummaging, frantically searching for something on the floor. The sound of ceramic shards crunching under my feet sent a chill through me.
"Father, what are you doing?"
He lifted his face towards me. His expression held nothing but raw hate.
"Where is the beer I left in the fridge!"
I sighed. "Don't you remember? You drank them all last night."
The work incident had profoundly changed him, reducing him to a mere shadow of the father I remembered. All that was left of him was his limp and his quick, angry look.
"And what was that, a sigh?" he hissed at me. "Who do you think you are, sighing at me?"
His fist grazed past my ear. It wasn't the first time. It didn't matter who was at fault, he just needed a valve to release his rage, and that valve was always either me or my mother.
I've been saving every single cent for almost five years. I keep the small stash hidden inside a loose floorboard beneath my bed a spot I had to dig out myself . My plan is to take my mother away from this house and place my father in a senior care facility. We can barely pay the household bills, and it's all his fault. I feel this is the only right choice left.
He keeps smashing things in the house every time he can't find what he wants, especially beer or wine, those are the only things that makes him feel better.
That's why I have two jobs. The fear that he might hurt my mother drives me to bring home enough money, even if what I earn is miserable. I didn't even manage to graduate because of my father's accident five years ago the one that destroyed his career and broke up his work group.
It's also my mother's fault for staying in this toxic house... No, I shouldn't blame her. But she has always been obsessed with money; she remarried three times just for the cash. I can't understand how she could do that, they never truly loved her back.
And of course me her first and only child had to follow her around.
The only place I ever felt at ease was outside that house. It was a huge cage. I wished it were a pretty cage, but it was a fire that never went out. Money was the only word that could unlock that door and let me out even for a short time.
When I wake up, the bright light that slices through my dull, ruined window always sparks a tiny hope. Maybe today, good things will finally happen?
I rush to brush my teeth and get dressed before my father wakes up. It's safer for me, and frankly, better for him too. I go straight to work without eating. I tell myself I don't need breakfast; the less I consume, the more money I can save for this house.
I work at a small bar quite far from home. The commute is long, but I like the journey, and the manager is incredibly kind. She's worked here for over 37 years she's old, yes, but wonderfully warm.
"Riley, why are you always so early?" the manager asked as I approached the closed bar while she was unlocking the door. She smiled softly "Do you miss us that much?"
Maya, the manager's daughter, was already inside, setting up chairs. She winked at me. "Yes, I think she did miss us!" Maya called out.
My cheeks immediately went red.
"I'll help with the chairs and the setup" I added quickly, desperate to change the focus.
"Well, girls, let's get ready," the manager announced.
"Is Liliana coming in today?" Maya asked. Liliana was another worker, but she only came when the bar was full and we needed extra help, or sometimes to deliver cakes.
I help out in the kitchen, and sometimes I cover the cashier, though that's usually Maya's job. The manager absolutely loves to bake. When I'm with her in the kitchen, she looks so passionate about making cakes, and they always come out perfect.
She once told me to always put my emotions into preparing a cake. "It will taste delicious," she'd said, "and the person who eats it will feel the emotions you wanted to give it."
It's a beautiful thought, though I'm not really good at showing my true feelings to others.
I never gave up; I tried. I wanted to express my feelings through the cake, but it was always a fail. "You're doing it the wrong way," she always told me. But what am I doing wrong? Are feelings that important? I can understand people completely; I don't need to see their emotions, and I certainly don't need to show them mine. What she kept telling me went in one ear and out the other; it's useless, I'm sure of it.
The bar was finally ready to open. I went outside and flipped the sign that still read "Closed."