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A little before Angela left the comfort and warmth of her house Charlie was heading to his own… you could call the deserted and decrepit room his home. Exhausted as he was from working the sweatshop, he was just as pissed off this evening. Today he was supposed to be paid his wage for the past two weeks but he was cheated by his bastard of a manager. Charlie had been running the machinery that chopped lumber to build all sorts of different things for people who could actually afford them when the damn thing had jammed. It turned out that a piece of metal had gotten shoved in with the lumber and that was why the machine was jammed. When his boss found out that a part of the machinery was broken because of the metal he went ballistic and went so far as to not give Charlie his pay. Charlie had punched the jackass right across the face. And though he was sure it wasn't the end of it, it had felt damn good.

Now on his way home, not wanted to head to the Hangman for another lousy night on the job dealing with drunks and jackasses, the knuckles on his right hand aching, he shook his head. It was all a joke anyways, though not a very funny one. What would happen to him when things kept going from bad to worse? It all began with his mother's death. At least when she was alive he still had hope that life was worth living and he would get somewhere with it. "Little Charlie," she used to say in her soft voice, holding him in her weathered well worn arms, "Things may not be the greatest now, but we've still got each other. Someday we'll go to the ocean and have a house to be proud of and we can all be a happy family together." Those dreams Charlie had held up for her, and because of her. But they were slowly disappearing in his memory. Each day was worse; his father got worse every day as well. "Too bad that's his own damn fault," Charlie thought to himself bitterly. He had known, even when he was little how drunk his father would get and how often. There was one time he could remember more than the rest when his father got so drunk that he struck Charlie's mother. Charlie was younger then, maybe seven or eight and didn't know what to do. He stayed shut off in his corner underneath a blanket pretending to be asleep and that night he vowed to never become like his father, drunken or angry. He thought now of his failure in the latter respect as he had become an angry cynic at the world and at life. The unfairness of the world shocked and stunned him into forgetting the good in the world and his mother's memory faded more with each taxing day. Bowing low enough as he reached his "home" he pushed aside the ragged curtain that closed off the inside from the streets of Harlem.

The inside of the hole in the wall was a depressing sight. There was no furniture to make it seem like a home but for one rickety table with uneven legs that two people could barely sit at. The candle that was burned almost down to the end had melted over the top of the table and in the flickering light Charlie could see the crouched form of his father crouched against the wall wrapped in rags. Charlie knelt next to him and nudged him wearily.

"Hey, wake up," he said though he didn't know why he bothered, it wasn't as if he had any good news, money, or even food to give him. He didn't feel love or even like towards his father who had done nothing to try to be a good father, Charlie just felt a sense of duty, and the man was his father. At the moment he hoped that his father wasn't drunk at least. He had gotten sicker and sicker and even though they hardly had enough money to feed themselves his father found ways, mostly stealing, to feed his alcoholism. At this point, however, Charlie noticed that his father had not moved at all. Charlie nudged him again but his father slumped to the floor, his eyes not opening and his limbs limp.

"Dad!" Charlie said louder, "Wake up, id's me Charlie!" He felt a sense of urgency and fright he hadn't felt since the death of his mother years ago. Charlie shook his father and felt for a pulse. At his neck Charlie felt an ever so slight throb and it was at that moment his father opened his eyes just a little and turned his head towards his son.

"Charlie…" his father rasped so quietly Charlie could barely hear him. "I think it's finally killed me…an before I go I need te tell ye sumthin…" Charlie knew that he meant the alcohol,l and the sickness that had, in the long term, come along with it. He had known it all along and had seen the deterioration of his body and mind for a long time before that.

"What is id?" Charlie asked a numbness creeping into his heart.

"Charlie…your mother…I loved her once…things…weren't always so bad…" he whispered and a look of pain came into his eyes whether from his health or the memories. "I became a different poison…wid each drink…ye must know dat…" he coughed harshly and took a few taxing breaths. "She…she didn't die…at de sweatshop…"

Charlie was suddenly confused and tried to remember back to the day when she died. He recalled he hadn't worked at the sweatshop then but apprenticed for a blacksmith, cleaning tools and doing grunt work. He had been about 13 at the time. His father had come rushing into the workroom tears in his eyes and told Charlie that his mother was dead, she had been killed by heavy machinery that fell…but then, Charlie thought to himself…what was his father saying?

"Id…was a mistake!" his father cried forcefully, "I didn't…mean to…I was upset…I was drunk…she tried te take away… de drink…mine…an…I did it son…id was me…" a tear rolled down his worn cheek.

But all Charlie could feel was…nothing. His body was cold, he was out of touch with himself. What had his father just confessed to? His mother, the only one who had truly loved and cared for him, was dead because of….because of him!

"What are ye sayin…" Charlie said softly but deliberately hate filling his every syllable.

"I…killed…her…"

"NO!" Charlie yelled. She had loved him, life would be better if she was alive, it wouldn't be so hard, he wouldn't have to kill himself every day for this bastard, if only she were here. All these thoughts raced through Charlie's numb mind all at once.

"YOU! You should have died instead of her, I wish you were dead you bastard!" Charlie bitterly shot out the words and for once didn't care what his father would do or say, he had the power now, his father could not push him around any more as he had for all those years, and as he had his mother. "Ye don't desoive te be killed by de disease, by de alcohol dat is yer fault in de foist place! I will kill ye before death has a chance!" and Charlie, feeling a power and an evil he had tasted before but never felt like this, coursing through his veins, raised his fist.

"I…am…sorry…" his father rasped, and Charlie, bare handed, not feeling the pain in his knuckles finished his excuse for a father whose apology were his last words.