Title: The Life & Times of Sara Sidle
Rating: T
Summary: (You all know by now)
Disclaimer: Still here...own nothing.
September 16, 1:15 pm
After a few hours of sitting stiffly and holding back the nausea that was passing through her body, Sara finally had enough and stood up. Woozy and dizzy, she walked around the building searching for the man responsible for bringing her to this place and pouring the large amount of alcohol down her throat. She had no idea how much he gave her- she lost count after three bottles when things started to get blurry.
The building had quieted down considerably, and the lights were now dimming. Beer bottles and cups with shots of tequila litered the small club, not to mention the discarded clothing lying around.
Sighing, she pulled back a sheet on the floor and scoffed when she saw the drunken figure of her father lying on the floor with a liquor bottle in his left hand, his other hand was around one of the dancer's waists. She nudged him with her foot.
"Dad."
No answer, he didn't even flinch.
"Dad."
She said it louder this time. No answer.
"Dad!"
She nudged him harder and this time he acknowledged her with a groan.
"Dad..."
He opened his eyes a little and squinted at the little light shining through the room. He moved his arms around trying to identify the figure standing over him. Sara held her hand out and he grabbed it.
"Hey baby." He had a smile on his face as he pulled her closer to him.
"Dad! It's me!"
He groaned and let go of her hand. She stood back up.
"Dad, it's past one o'clock."
"Mm-hmm."
"Dad."
"What?"
"Let's go home."
He groaned again and turned over, his head turned away from his daughter and he buried it in the sheet on the floor in defiance like a small child.
"Dad..."
"You can go home yourself."
"Dad, I'm 12-years-old."
It was the truth. Sara had been born at 7:47 am on September 16.
"So drive yourself home."
She rolled her eyes. He was too drunk to understand anything she was saying.
"Fine, I'm going home."
She turned her heel and walked off. She grabbed her jacket, which had served as a bed the night before, and wrapped it around herself as she made her way out of the building. It was dark and cloudy still, and a cold wind was blowing against her. She took a deep breath and started on her way home.
Some birthday. I never would have guessed Dad would've taken me to a strip club. I'll give him one thing- the man knows how to surprise you.
She rolled her eyes- the nauseaous feeling she had was growing stronger by the second, and she had to hold back the urge to run over to an alley and just empty the contents of her stomach. She swayed back and forth every now and then, but she was determined to make it to her house. If nothing else, she would collapse outside the doorway. Then maybe at least her mother would know she had tried to make it home.
Unable to bare it anymore, she ran into an alley and threw up. She leaned against the brick wall as she brushed the hair away from her face before throwing up again.
Now I know what a hangover feels like.
She would have much rather preferred to read about it than actually experience it firsthand.
So this is what Dad does everyday.
She turned and headed back home.
Just make it home.
To her luck, her home was about a mile and a half away. The soles of her sneakers were beginning to fall apart, and her feet were freezing from stepping in the large puddles that had formed from the rain.
Note to self: buy new shoes.
The thin jacket she was wearing was almost five-years-old. Her parents believed in putting all items to full use before replacing them.
Sara's fingernails were digging into her skin through the thin fabric of the jacket. She was freezing, and her entire body was going numb from being out in the cold. She could see her breath every time she exhaled, and she was paler than usual, but she had no idea if it was from the cold or the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Just a little further...
She tried her best to reassure herself, but she knew damn well she wouldn't be home for a while since she was at least a mile away from her neighborhood. She walked past the street to her school and shuddered- school was one of the last things she wanted to think about at the moment- it definetly wasn't helping the naseasous feeling she had.
She wondered what her mother would do when she found out about her husband taking her father out for a little late night party. Her mother would most likely not try and play the hero and chew out her husband for it, so Sara would wander off to her room with a bucket and a wetted rag and every time she needed to empty her stomach, she wouldn't have to leave her room.
How convenient.
Sara didn't want to face her parents again, especially her father. She needed to leave this life behind her. What would it make her into when she got older? Would she turn into one of those old ladies who stays in their homes all the times with over a thousand cats?
Slowly, she made her way up the road. She was walking up a rather large hill, and every step was an effort. She almost fell over and rolled down the hill, but she firmly planted her feet on the pavement before she lost her footing.
When she finally made it up the hill, she sighed with relief and exhaustion. She walked as fast as she could with a broken ankle, and when she finally made it home, she knocked on the front door.
No answer.
"Mom!"
She knocked again, but she still got no answer.
She sighed and went around the house. She put her good foot on a small piece of wood for a boost, and then she threw her other leg over the fence. As she lifted her upper torso over the fence with her good arm, the back of her jacket got caught on the top of the fence. Now, she was hanging by her jacket. The wires tore through the thin fabric, but not enough to tear her free of hanging by her jacket.
"This is ridicu-"
Before she could finish her sentence, her jacket was torn from the fence and she fell face-first onto the ground.
"Ow."
She made her way to her feet, and she got on top of the trash can outside. She lifted herself up and opened the window in her room and slid through it, doing a 180-degree flip before landing on the floor in her bedroom.
"Finally."
She got up and opened her bedroom door. She covered her nose when the overly strong scent of alcohol filled her nostrils. She turned the corner and saw what she was expecting- her mother sprawled out on the floor surrounded by bottles of scotch and brandy. She walked over to her and shook her.
"Mom."
Nothing.
"Mom."
A groan.
"Mom, you fell asleep."
She didn't have her eyes open, but she was stirring. "Huh?"
"You fell asleep."
"Oh..." she rubbed her head, eyes still closed. "Where were you?"
"Dad...dad took me out for some father-daughter bonding."
She sat up. "I thought you two left me."
As her mother reached for another bottle of alcohol, Sara pulled it away. "No, mom, we're not leaving you."
Her mom groaned as she got to her feet and swayed. Just before she collapsed, Sara caught her. "Mom..."
The woman fell into unconsciousness. Sara rolled her eyes and grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and slid it under her head. She got up and slid the remaining pieces of her jacket off and threw them in the trash. She got a glass of water and sipped it slowly, the cool liquid feeling wonderful on her throat. She put the glass in the sink before walking back to her bedroom.
This is just fabulous.
She sat in the middle of her room indian-style, as best she could. She lowered her head and rubbed it. At least the nauseaous feeling she had before was somewhat disipating. She couldn't go on in this house- god only knew what her father had planned for her thirteenth birthday. By the time she turned eighteen, she expected herself to have almost completely fallen to pieces. She knew any life was better than the one she was living now, but she was scared to find out what would happen if she got caught.
She got up and opened her closet door. She looked at the small amount of clothes she had and picked a long-sleeved t-shirt. It would provide little warmth, but she no longer had a jacket. She looked down at her sneakers- they definetly weren't going to hold up much longer. She slipped them off and walked into her parents' bedroom. Spotting the sewing basket, which her mother never used, she grabbed it and carried it to her room. She took out a spool of thread and started trying to sew up the sides of the sneakers. Hopefully, the shoes would hold up for at least a few days.
The least she could do was bring her father back to make her mother stop drinking. She made her way to the living room and sighed as she looked at the sprawled figure of her mother lying on the floor like a beached whale. She opened the door and walked out, preparing herself for the long walk back to the strip club.
Why am I doing this? What have they done for me? What do I care if my father stays at that strip club for the rest of his life?
Despite her thoughts, Sara's legs kept moving toward the strip club. Her body was on auto-pilot. Only her subconscious was in her control. She felt like a robot being controlled with a remote. As many times as she told herself to stop and just go back home or run away, her legs continued to move closer to the strip club.
When she arrived, she opened the doors and saw her father actually standing on two feet. The dancers were now up, and he was just beginning to down some more shots of scotch.
"Dad!"
He turned and stared at his daughter with a puzzled expression on his face. "The hell are you doing here?"
"I left about an hour ago, but mom's out on the floor, so I came back here to get you."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Yes you are. You're going home right now."
She walked up to him and grabbed his arm. He laughed as she pulled him away from the dancers and he dropped the bottle of scotch. She led him around the corner and he started leaning more and more on his daughter, his eyelids drooping.
"Dad. N-No, dad, you can't fall asleep."
His eyelids were now closed completely and they stayed that way. His feet were starting to drag as Sara led him to their house. Now his full body weight was on her, and she grunted every time she moved, him now riding on her back.
"Dad, you have to wake up."
No answer.
She sighed. "Dad, please, come on- wake up."
He didn't move and she glanced up the hill on the road. She took a deep breath before making her way up the hill. She almost lost her balance a couple times, but she quickly regained her composure and made it up the hill. As quickly as she could, she made it to her house and threw the door open, collapsing on the floor with her father rolling off her back.
The commotion woke her mother. "What? Who's there?"
Sara grunted as she got to her feet. "I brought back Dad."
She sat up. "Where was he?"
"Where do you think he was? His 'home away from home'."
Her mother noticed the sarcastic tone in her voice and turned to her unconscious husband. "What did he do?"
She didn't want to mention him pouring bottles and bottles of alcohol down her throat. Her mother stood up and actually kicked her husband in the head.
"Get up."
Her husband groaned. "Don't kick me, Laura."
He had been drunk all that time, but he still knew who kicked her.
"I'm sorry, I won't kick you anymore. I'll keep this in mind next time you decide to beat the living daylights out of your family."
That got him to his feet. "Don't do this."
"I heard about your little birthday present to our daughter."
He turned and gave Sara a death glare. Sara stood up and backed away.
"Don't you hurt her, John."
Sara was surprised- her mother actually was playing the hero this time.
He turned and looked at her. "I was bringing my daughter into adulthood."
Her mother even found this pitiful. "Adulthood? Is that what they're calling it now?"
He balled his hand into a fist. "Don't start."
"I'm sick of this, John. What's next, John, huh? What's next?"
Sara wanted to stop it before it started. She walked in the middle of them. "Please, don't start...I-"
She was interrupted by her father pushing her out of the way onto the floor, thus angering her mother. It was starting.
"You bastard!" her mother yelled throwing a punch at her husband- she slugged him across the face before he got a hit on her. Her father slapped her before she kicked him in the ribs. This time, he slammed her face-first into the wall. Sara punched her father repeatedly, trying to make him stop.
"Dad, stop it!"
He turned around now to face his daughter. Trying to be the hero came at a price. He grabbed her good arm and slammed her side into the wall. She was winded, and she slowly slid to the floor holding her stomach, trying to find the breath that always seemed to escape her.
Her mother ran to the kitchen and opened a drawer, throwing out spoons and tongs until she found what she was looking for- a knife. It was a long knife, maybe eight inches, and she ran at her husband. The knife dug into his chest and she stabbed him over and over again, ignoring her daughters' cries for her to stop.
Sara ran into her parents' bedroom and grabbed the phone, trying desperately to get the image out of her mind. Blood and the occasional flash of silver. She dialed 9-1-1.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"