Chapter 36
„Dad?"
The noises coming from the kitchen had woken him up.
Glass shattering on the floor. Something heavy crashing against the rickety table, making it screetch over the floor.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes when he couldn´t read the numbers on his watch. 2.30...
The floor was cold on his bare feet.
„Dad!"
No answer. He wadded down the stairs, already dreading what he would find in the kitchen. He stopped at the door. Tiny glass sheds covered the floor, some colorless liquid
between them. The smell told Dean it was not water.
„Dad..."
Finally the crumpled figure on the floor let out a moan.
He watched his father stir, trying to sit up, and failing. His shirt and trousers were stained. Not again...
He went to the main entrance and put on his shoes. No need to cut his feet on top of everything else. He shoved the remains of the bottle – vodka, presumably – to one side and bent over his father. The stench was repellent.
„Dad, come on..."
He was so heavy. Weaving his arms under his father´s, he linked his fingers and tried not to think about the sticky mess he felt.
He pulled as good as he could, tearing his father´s rather limp body through the booze on the floor and to the living room. He took the shoes off his father´s feet, wriggled him out of the stained trousers. Opened the buttons of the plaid shirt. It was kind of hard to get his father out of it, but finally he had him lying on the floor in his underwear.
He sat back, leaning against the worn out couch. He was drained in sweat, and his pyjamas were now stained too – booze and vomit all over his sleeves. He shrugged out of his shirt too, throwing it on the heap of clothes.
He watched his father for a few minutes. He was so tired his brain seemed to be working in slow motion, not taking in much at all. Or maybe he was just so used to it all by now...it was like runnig on autopilot.
He bent over his father, pulled one arm over, stabilizing him so he wouldn´t suffocate on his own vomit during the rest of the night. Then he scrambled to his feet, took the blanket from the couch and threw it over the snoring figure on the floor. He picked up the clothes, went to the kitchen sink and threw them into it, turning on the hot water. He´d have to get a cheap used washing machine somewhere. No way he´d be running to the laundry saloon with his father´s messed up shirts three times a week.
While waiting for the clothes to soak, he leant his head against the board, closing his eyes. Rufus wouldn´t be happy to have him bleary eyed and dragging his feet tomorrow again...but he couldn´t change that, could he? And that old grouch should mind his own business anyway. He was still a better trainee in his garage being sleepy and unfocused than Chris or Rob on the best of their days.
He spilled some detergent over the clothes and went to fetch an old towel to clean up the floor.
He was 16, and wasn´t this teenage life just great.