Retching, banging and, a toilet struggling to flush it's contents, my father is back from his bender after getting paid. I wonder if he has enough to cover electricity bill, at least the cable bill, maybe. The rent never seems to come due as much as I haven't paid it in four months and our landlord would come banging if it was a day late. The lovely guttural sounds of liquid coming out of the wrong orifice start up again. This time accompanied with a chorus of moaning in pain and panting. Damn it. I have a test in Calculus tomorrow and that I was hoping to take it on a full four hours and decent breakfast. And I really needed a good grade on it.
I try to rub the ever-present fatigue out of my eyes and get out of bed to go make sure that my father doesn't ruin any more walls, destroy the sparse offering that I call food or hurt himself. He would think that making a massive white Russian out of our milk is a good idea. Every two weeks…only four more months until I turn 18 and, can legally get my own apartment, have full control over my finances. Only 8 more episodes then I never have to deal with my father again…with a comfortable secret saving account and a small reputation locally, getting an apartment shouldn't be too much trouble.
I have to steady myself on the cigarette burned dresser. My head doesn't feel right, a little dizzy. I turn on the flickering florescent overhead light and catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror attached to the bowed door. My overly thick dull blond hair sticks in all directions falling a little past my ears, boring brown eyes with large bags under them that always seems a little big for my face, no muscle tone to speak of or much of anything but bone, a pair of old pyjama pants falling off my hip, and finally a few burn marks and small cuts still healing from two weeks ago. Only 8 fucking more then I'm free from my father. I venture down the hole-covered walls, and stained carpet. All are reminders of previous late night altercations.
My father hugs the yellowing toilet for dear life while greenish-brown vomit hangs from his chin. Sweat beads on his forehead and his lank dirty blond hangs over the edge of toilet. The normally imposing man reduced to a puking mess. Every two fucking weeks…could he at least change it up a little? Keep me on my toes; add a bit of spice to my life maybe? I sigh and grab one of the formally white towels, now a plethora of colours but mostly grey out of the cupboard that is half off of it's hinges. But I can't help myself but glance at the small floating numbers above of his head, 3500/0 in glowing green like he's some "sim". Why am I up at 3 in morning about to take care of him when all he's ever done is berate me, hit me, use what little resources I have? Why do I care so much about him? He's my father, so fucking what? I mean nothing to him.
"Come on, let's go to bed before you sleep in the bathroom again." I say wetting the towel in the cracked sink and squatting on the broken tile floor to whip the puke off my father chin. My only luck this morning seems to be that my father drank more than normal and he's almost comatose. I shouldn't go to school with any more injuries tomorrow. He just moans in reply.
I grab his shoulder and attempt to reposition him against the wall. Instead he shrugged off my hand, and using the toilet to attempt to stand. Some of the vomit drips onto his already stained work shirt, leather jacket outline his muscles from working construction. I know where this is going…what will be worse? If I take it or if I actually run? By a very small margin, if I run, but only if he doesn't get through my door. I drop the towel and a take a step towards my bedroom.
"You pity me. I'm just an alcoholic to you." He screams, slurring every word at me, spit flying everywhere. I take a few more steps back hoping he's too drunk to notice or too drunk react quite yet. So far, not so bad, last time was worse. But it's only the beginning.
"You're no better. You're head is in a card game all the time, if you tried you might get to see Serenity more than once a month or maybe your mother won't have left. You'll never be the best." He slurs in my direction. His face is completely red. I knew that was coming. His words don't even sting anymore. It's not my fault that Serenity lives four hours away with our mother, it's not my fault that I can't be the older brother I want to be. It is my fault that even after I turn 18 I can't afford to take care of her; I can't afford to give her a comfortable place to live…that is my fault. I'm not my best friend; I'm not the king of games.
I take another step back out of the bathroom. He grits his teeth and his hand clenches, and a shiver goes down my spine. He's pissed. My heart beats rapidly in my chest and I just let myself react. Back down the hall, over the uneven floor and shag carpet, through my open door frame I sprint. He's right behind me, his boots hitting the floor with thud and a growl, like a wild animal, coming from deep in his throat. Every two weeks, but the adrenaline still pumps through my veins like a cruel joke. He still frightens me, he can still fucking hurt me…that 3500 laughing in my ears as I slam my bedroom door. Then slide my dresser in front of my door right as I hear the first loud bang of the night. He's not going to get through that, he hasn't gotten through it yet. He roars on the other side of the door and bangs at the water damaged wooden door. I take a few breaths before my breathing is back to normal and my heart decelerates by the millisecond. Like always, I'm shaking and completely awake for the on-slot of insults that are being shouted through my door. Stupid, worthless, a dreamer, useless, my friends just put up with me, fag, cocksucker, motherfucker, pussy, lazy, incompetent…I've heard them all. I slide down on my single bed to wait until he gets tired, passes out and or until I get a nap before school. Luckily there were no more injuries but I won't risk breakfast tomorrow morning, Yugi will have a guest then. Every time this happens…3500 attack points, as I've grown to call them, to hurt me. Or at least that is what I think the numbers that float above anyone's head mean…just a reminder of how much of an idiot I really am.
Please tell me if Joey's power makes no fucking sense.
The numbers indicate risk with becoming involved with Joey, the first number is the risk for Joey and the next is the risk for the other person. Also I have no idea if supernatural is the right category for this.
