You wake up to the sound of an alarm clock, or a parent trying to rouse you from sleep, or maybe a dream that made your heart beat so fast it nearly broke through your chest and pulled you up with it. Me? I'm happy if I get to sleep at all. My father likes to wake me up with an accusation or a hand up my shirt. By which time, I try to breathe though my mouth to avoid his acid-like alcoholic breath, and guide him to his own room, where he can be alone on his own.
My dad, he likes to drink, and when you live in a small town like La Push, everyone knows it. My mother died two years ago, but with the impact it had on my father you'd think she died every day.
"What are you still doing in bed? You think you can just slack off while I'm busting my ass to send you to a good school?" He jerks the blankets off of me so suddenly, the cool air chasing goose bumps along my skin.
I groan, because I'm tired and it isn't time for school and he's not busting his ass, he's so drunk he's falling on it. "Dad, I still have two hours before I even need to get up." I inform him, trying to grab my quilt from his clenched fist, but he's quick for being wasted, and he wraps his fingers around my wrist, squeezing painfully until I yelp. He drops his hand, making eye contact with me, staring me down dangerously. He balls up the blanket and throws it in the corner of my room, eyes never leaving mine, and says, "I don't give a FUCK what time you USUALLY get your ass up. You're getting up now." And with that he leaves.
I sigh, I knew it'd be a long day, but with the lack of sleep it'll be that much longer.