I am 15 years old now. On the way home, I still carried my guitar with me, the feeling as if it were clinging tightly to my back. When I arrived at the apartment, I saw my father sitting in the yard, beside him a pile of empty beer cans. I sighed.
"Dad, why are you sitting here?"
He turned to look at me, his eyes bloodshot from drinking, and stood up unsteadily.
"Why do you care about me…?"
He spoke in an irritable voice, staggering into the house and leaving the mess of beer cans behind.
"Dad!"
I raised my voice slightly, not wanting to create more tension. I closed my eyes and sighed, then began cleaning up the trash he had left. There was really nothing left to say about him.
A while later, I went inside, exhausted—today the teacher had given us a lot of homework, and on top of that I had to clean up my father's vomit. He was sitting on the old sofa. I looked at him for a moment, took off my shoes and placed them neatly in the cabinet, then hung my guitar in the corner of the room. After washing up, I returned to the living room and saw him still drunk, muttering incoherently.
"Poor me, raising you is completely useless."
He spat out those rude words while drinking and watching TV. I just stood there, disappointed, not wanting to pay him any more attention, so I went into the kitchen to cook for myself. After a while, he stood up and walked toward me.
"You there, why do you keep looking at me like that? If you didn't exist, things would be better."
He threw a beer can at me, but I managed to dodge it in time. After that, he opened the fridge and took out another can.
"Dad, please stop drinking beer. It's not good for your health."
I said it, hoping he would listen, but in that state, it was hard for him to take anything in.
"Leave me alone. What does me drinking beer have to do with you? Kid?"
He stepped closer, glaring at me with a threatening look, as if he wanted to start a fight.
"I'm your father. I can do whatever I want. You have no right to say anything."
"Enough, Dad! What you're saying makes you no different from a stranger!"
I snapped, trying to stay calm. He threw another can at me, beer splashing over my head and soaking my clothes.
"Motherfucker! You dare talk back to me? Ungrateful bastard. I gave birth to you and you turned out like this. Take that stupid dream of yours and go—die of hunger for all I care. If you want to leave, then leave!"
After that, still cursing and drunk, he staggered back into the living room, leaving me alone with the mess. And it wasn't a small one.
I forced myself to endure it, cleaning up the chaos he had left behind. After tidying up and taking a shower, I wiped the beer off my body. I returned to my room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought for a long time.
"Am I really wrong, Dad?"
I murmured, struggling with the negative thoughts in my head. Then I looked toward the guitar hanging on the wall, staring at it for a long while as tears began to fall. I couldn't seem to hold back my emotions anymore. I glanced toward my desk—the music book my cousin had given me was still lying there. I sat up, walked over, touched the cover, and wondered whether my dream was even possible.
Pushing all the ups and downs aside, I decided to take out my guitar and practice in the middle of the night. A dream may remain just a dream, but I cannot give it up—even if my father stands in my way.