She waited all night long for her husband to come home. Staring nervously out the window, seeing the weak light from the streetlamps shining off the wet road. Where the hell was Raphael? She thought, glancing at the phone. Melissa wondered if she should call the Sheriff, ask him if he could check the bars downtown. Another ten minutes, and she'd make the phone call.
Headlights flashed briefly on the living room window, and Melissa jumped up from her seat. She heard the front door open, and her husband stumbled in.
"Raphael?" She said, as he kicked off his shoes. He reeked of alcohol, the stench emanating down the front hall. "Where were you?" Melissa asked.
"Out," He answered, gruffly.
"Do you know what time it is?" She hissed, arms wrapped around her torso. It was a chilly winter night. Though she was wearing a heavy, knitted sweater, the house still felt drafty. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"I don't know and I don't care," He said, his voice raising belligerently. He always was an angry drunk, she thought, as Raphael stared at her. His eyes were cold and ferocious looking in the dim light.
"Keep your voice down, Raphael. Scott is upstairs sleeping. The last thing I want our boy to wake up to, is the sight of his drunk father staggering all over the house like a goddamned fool." Melissa told him, watching as he crawled up the stairs, one hand clutching the banister. She was pretty sure that that was the only thing keeping him from falling down the stairs.
"Not gonna wake him," Her husband slurred, going into the bathroom. He felt for the light switch, and stared at his own haggard expression in the bathroom mirror. His reddened eyes and week old stubble aged him by a few years.
God, I should quit drinking one of these days.
She could hear him turn on the faucet, knocking over the plastic spongebob cup Scott used to rinse his teeth onto the tiled floor. She cringed at the loud sound.
"Keep it quiet," She told him, following him up the stairs. "I mean it."
Melissa remembered in their college years how it had been fun to spend hours in the bars drinking with friends. She'd stopped drinking the day she'd found out she was pregnant, never touching a drop since. Melissa had long since decided where her priorities lay; raising her precious son, and her nursing career.
Unfortunately, her husband had never kicked the habit. He still relied on his amber liquid to sate his thirst, and keep him happy. Even when she objected, and asked him to cut back, the answer was still the same. There's nothing wrong with a bit of social drinking. But the amount Raphael drank was much more than the social drinks they'd shared in the crummy bars in the past. She knew his habit was also affecting his work, as he often went to work hungover and barely able to cope.
Melissa stood in the doorway of the bathroom, and watched as he washed his trembling hands in the flowing water. He looked up at her, staring blankly at his wife of five years.
"What?" He demanded. "You always stare at me like I'm such a big disappointment." He told her, turning off the water.
"You know why I'm disappointed," Melissa told him. "Because you won't stop drinking."
"It's not a big deal." He said, drying his hands clumsily on the red bathtowel hanging beside him. She watched as the towel crumpled to the floor.
"Did you even read the pamphlets I put on the dresser? AA meetings are on Tuesday nights. I could go with you, if you want." She said, walking down the hall to their bedroom.
"Fuck that." Raphael mumbled. "I don't need help."
"Yes, you do." Melissa told him, trying to keep her voice quiet. Scott was sleeping down the hall, she didn't want him to see them fight.
"Drop it, Melissa. I'm not going to some shitty meeting." He said. "Hi, I'm Raph and I'm an alkie." He mimicked, rolling his eyes.
"There's no shame in asking for help." She insisted. Why did I ever marry such a stubborn man, She asked herself.
Melissa turned around when she heard the sound of Scott's door opening. He stood in his firetruck pyjamas, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Great, now we've woken Scott.
"What's going on?" He asked, looking up at his parents, confused.
"It's nothing, sweetheart," Melissa said, walking towards the four year old. "Mommy and daddy were just having a loud conversation. Let's get you back to bed," She said, gently tousling Scott's black curls.
"Yeah, Scott," Raphael said, in an unpleasant tone. "A really loud conversation. More of an argument, really." He said, smirking.
"What time is it?" Scott asked, yawning.
"Nearly three o'clock. You still have a few hours until you have to get up for daycare." Melissa told him.
Raphael's head was swimming, and he glared at his wife. "You care more about him than you ever did about me. I liked you better when you drank."
"Go to bed, Raphael." She said, trying to ignore him.
"Stupid bitch." He muttered, one hand reaching out to the doorframe beside him.
Scott looked up at his mom, uncertain. This wasn't the first time her son had had to witness his drunk father in the middle of the night, acting like an asshole. It wouldn't be the last.
"Have you been drinking again, Daddy?" Scott asked, grabbing his mom's hand. "You're not nice when you drink," He said, in the honest way children speak sometimes.
Raphael stared up at his wife, his cheeks reddening. "Have you been coaching our son, Melissa? Telling him what to say to his no-good drunk father?" He asked, taking a step towards his wife.
"Knock it off, Raph. This is your alcoholism talking. Go sleep it off, I'm putting him to bed, then I'm taking the couch downstairs." She said, pulling Scott beside her.
"Yeah, Dad. Go sleep it off." Scott echoed his mother's words, not fully comprehending what he was saying.
He rushed forward, grabbing Scott by the upper arm. Melissa tried to pull his hand off Scott's arm, but he pushed her roughly away.
"Raph! Let him go!" She shouted, hitting him in the side. Scott's bottom lip quivered as he stared up at his father.
"Do you think I'm a no-good drunk?" Raph hissed, leaning in close to Scott's upturned face. "Think I'm a terrible father?"
Scott slowly shook his head. "No, daddy." He whispered, terrified.
Raphael let go of Scott abruptly, pushing him away. The kid took a step back, missed the landing. He was standing precariously at the edge of the stairs, one hand reaching out to Raphael. Both parents saw the split second of horror on Scott's face as his foot hit air, instead of the solid wood under his feet.
He fell, a cry escaping his lips as he painfully rolled down the staircase. Both adults heard the crunch of Scott's head hitting the wooden floor. He lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed.
"No!" Melissa shouted, running past her shocked husband, desperate to reach her boy. She could see the bruise spreading across the side of Scott's head.
OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod Melissa heaved a shaking breath, as she reached for her son's wrist. Please don't be dead, I could never forgive myself if you die. She closed her eyes, feeling her son's tiny wrist, praying to a God she didn't believe in. Praying for a miracle. Her heart raced, as she felt the comforting pulse of blood through Scott' small veins. He was alive.
"Is he okay?" Raphael asked, giving his wife a shocky stare. He couldn't believe he'd do something as stupid as hurt his own child. It was just a few drinks. "I'm so sorry."
"You could've killed him," Melissa said, opening her eyes and glaring up at her husband. He looked blurry through her tears. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry," He repeated, his eyes misting.
Scott was breathing, his eyes still closed. She sat beside her son, waiting for him to wake up. Melissa was so relieved to see Scott open his eyes. Ten long, excruciating minutes that her son had been unconscious. Scott gave his parents a confused look, as he realized he was lying on the floor.
"Why am I lying on the floor?" He asked, mouth twisting comically upwards. Scott sat up, and looked around. "Why am I not in bed?" He asked, confused.
"Oh, honey," Melissa told him, hugging him tightly. She was grateful that Scott didn't remember falling, didn't recall the argument upstairs, or the way his father had pushed him. She was glad that Scott seemed unconcerned as Melissa scooped her son into her arms, and carried him into the living room. She turned the cartoons up loud, before kissing him lightly on the forehead.
"I need to talk to Daddy upstairs, okay?" She told him. "Stay here and watch Scooby Doo."
Stiles nodded, his attention transfixed on the TV set. "Uh huh," He said.
Melissa stalked upstairs. She went into the bedroom, and shut the door. Melissa pulled the empty suitcase out from under the bed, and unzipped it. She opened the closet door, and yanked her husband's work shirts off their hangers, and threw them into the suitcase.
"What are you doing?" Raphael asked, watching her pull the dresser drawers open. The suitcase was nearly full.
"This is the final straw, Raph. I need you out of the house. You're dangerous." She spat the words out, venomously at him. "You're a mean drunk, and I can't have Scott grow up seeing you turn our life upside down."
"I'll get help," He pleaded. "We'll go to the AA meetings. Don't kick me out." Raphael pleaded. The sickening crack of Scott's head hitting the wooden floor kept playing over and over in his head. His mouth started to water, and he knew suddenly that he was going to be sick. Raphael rushed to the bathroom just in time.
"You need to leave. Tonight." Melissa said, firmly.
"Melissa, Please –" Raphael started.
"GET OUT!" She screamed. She grabbed the heavy suitcase and hauled it down the stairs. Scott was still enthralled by the cartoon, oblivious to his parent's tension.
Melissa picked up the phone, and listened to the dial tone. "Either I call you a cab, or I call the Sheriff. Make your choice, Raph." She said, seriously.
"Cab." He whispered, pulling on his shoes and jacket.