Addiction
Addiction was something that seemed to follow John wherever he went.
It started out with his father.
It was right around the time when John figured out that his mum wasn't going to live 'till Christmas. He was eight years old.
Mum promised she'd take him to go to the shops – let him help her pick up holiday gifts for Harry and dad.
He knew something was wrong when he saw that dad was still home. He sat in the kitchen, staring intensely at a cup of coffee. Dad wasn't sick. Dad had work. Dad never missed work.
"Dad? It's nine o'clock. You're late for work."
"I'm not goin'." He didn't even look at John. Just stared at his coffee some more.
John worried his lower lip for a moment before deciding to leave it alone. It was no use getting dad angry – so close to the holidays, he probably just needed a rest.
John turned around, padding down the corridor in his new, fuzzy, white Christmas socks. It was a special early gift from mummy – she'd told him that it was because his little toes always looked so cold. And he wasn't supposed to tell anyone else, but sometimes, when he and mummy were home alone, they'd slide all around the floor with their new, matching fuzzy socks.
He was just pushing the door open to his parents' room when dad came up behind him. John almost jumped from the surprise. He hadn't even heard his dad get up.
"Dad, what's wrong? Let go of my wrist, please."
His dad's face was twisted in a way John had never seen before. His grip was so tight that John's wrist had already begun to ache and his fingers spasmed.
"Leave her be," he hissed.
John looked up at him in confusion. He heard his mum sit up from the bed and cough.
"I just wanted to know if mum and I were still going to the shops," he explained. "Is she sick? I'll give her medicine so she can feel better. Like a doctor." He smiled, but it faded when Dad still refused to let go of his wrist. He was pulled roughly towards the hall again, and he almost tripped on his own feet.
"No, you leave her well alone, you hear me?!"
John didn't know how to react. Dad had never raised his voice before – not even during rugby games. His dad cuffed him 'round the back of the head and he yelped.
"You hear me?!"
John's knees wobbled.
"Knock it off! John, sweetie, come here, please."
John's dad let go of his wrist, but before he could argue, John had already run to his mum. He curled up against her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She settled for a sad smile, pulling the comforter up around him, too. She rubbed gentle circles on his back.
John's father had walked away. They heard another door in the house slam.
"Are you okay, mummy?" John asked warily. She was pale. She had dark rings around her eyes. Blonde strands of her hair had begun to fall out. Her hands were shaking, he could feel them. She cleared her throat.
"I'm sick again, John."
He frowned, clutching the front of her nightdress in his small hands. It was soft. "What can I do?" he asked.
His mum didn't answer for a while. If she still hadn't been rubbing circular patterns into his back, he would have thought she'd fallen asleep.
"I don't..." she paused, pressing her lips to the top of his head.
"I don't think I'm going to get better this time, love."
She died a few months later.
John saw much more of Harriet in the time following his mother's death. He saw much less of his father. That was when it started.
At first, it was only the weekends. He'd come home long after the time he should have and pass out on the sofa, assuming he made it there. John and Harriet steered far out of his way on these days.
Soon, it became a change to more than just the weekends..
Then he began buying drinks and keeping them at home.
Harriet kept away from home as much as she could, leaving food in the fridge for him to eat. John would tiptoe across the hall and through the sitting room only when he was absolutely sure his father was asleep and that he wouldn't wake. He learned that after the first occurrence.
He hadn't been very old then. Ten, maybe? A little older? Younger? He couldn't remember exactly. Didn't try to.
He didn't have school and Harry wasn't home. She never really was. Came home when their father was at work, fed him and helped wash his clothes if she had the time. And if not, left before he could say a word.
After all, at her age, her being out late wasn't looked at as particularly unusual by other people. It wasn't her fault. John didn't blame her. If he could be out like that without being questioned, he'd go, too. But he wouldn't leave his younger sibling home alone with a drunk. He'd certainly do something about it, too.
He knew there was nothing he could say. Without Harry, John would be brushed off because his father would say he just came home after a night with his pals. That John didn't understand. That he never hit him. Which was true, at least then, because John wasn't in sight enough to let that happen. Without Harry, his father could talk his way out of it. Without Harry, his father would never get help. They would never get help. And she wouldn't be willing.
So John normally stayed in his bedroom whenever his father was home. He curled up under the covers and would stay there and read all the wonderful books he'd begged the librarian to let him borrow. Occasionally he had enough time to sneak Harry's old CD player from her bag and listen to calm music. He played the discs his mother used to love. Back when she wrote, before she got sick all the time. They helped when father got particularly rowdy or when John could sometimes hear him cry.
He thought that he had enough time before his father was supposed to return from work. John had forgotten he didn't have any crackers left in his room and that he drank all the bottles of water the night before. He thought he surely had enough time to at least grab a few more and maybe even some crisps from the shelf, too.
He practically flew from his room, now unnerved even within the confines of his own home. Except it was never really like a home anymore, not since mum died. Any room that wasn't his own did nothing to slow the choking anxiety he felt when he was outside of it.
He quickly opened the fridge, ignoring the glass bottles that clinked. There was no water; nothing other than his fathers' drinks. At the sound of the front door John froze.
His father stood passively in the doorway and all John could do was stand there.
"Sit down," he said.
John just continued to stand there. There were no chairs, where was he supposed to...?
"Sit down!" his father bellowed and John stepped back, frightened, before plopping ungracefully down onto the floor. The fridge door hadn't quite closed and his father stared at it for a moment before striding forward with a purpose. He opened it again, glancing individually at each bottle. He muttered a number with each he looked at, counting them under his breath.
John tried to keep as still as possible. His father stopped, dragging his eyes over them all a second time, a look of frustration on his face. Then realization.
He glanced at John for a moment before pulling one of the bottles from the fridge and closing it. He yanked the top off using only his fingers with practiced ease and John held the bottle when it was roughly thrusted in his direction.
"Drink it," his father growled and John didn't disobey. He kept quiet and took a long sip despite the odd sensation in the back of his throat. He tried not to display a negative reaction.
He held the bottle back out to his father who, if anything, looked even angrier than before. John held his breath. His father grabbed the bottle from him, and for the first few seconds John thought he was going to drink from it .
So at the movement of his father, John quickly scrambled out of the way. Glass rained down and he gasped as shards of it coated with liquor pricked at his skin and sliced mercilessly. At least it wasn't his face. He stumbled up into a standing position as his father started to scream.
"So, it was you!" he yelled, and John took a few steps to the side and backwards, jarring his arm as he hit the edge of the doorway. He and his father were in opposite positions now. John kept his eyes trained on his father's hands
"At first I thought it was her, the conniving little bitch! Just packing up and leaving whenever she pleased instead of sneaking around like you." John swallowed roughly.
"But it's been you the entire time, hasn't it been?" his father asked, suddenly quiet. They made eye contact for a few seconds. " Hasn't it?"
"Doing what?" John asked, voice close to trembling. The first words he'd spoken to his father in close to two years.
"Stealing my goddamn drinks, that's what!" he exploded, and when he took a step in John's direction, John bolted. Spun around, ran straight for the front door and slammed it shut behind him. He ducked to avoid being seen from any of the house's windows, even though it was dark. He wasn't followed outside.
He snuck around to his window, easing it open slowly. Harriet had kept it greased and told him to use it if he ever needed to leave while father was home. It had seemed extreme at the time, but now, as he pulled himself in with some difficulty, he understood why it was so necessary.
He locked his door and opened his closet, burrowing in there as he heard his father turn on the telly. Better to keep him assuming he'd run off for the night. That he had someplace else he could go. He curled up with some blankets, put on his headphones and turned on his trusty booklight.
That was the first time he took the blame for Harriet, and certainly not one of the last. If listening to music and reading was what kept him sane, he was going to revel in it.
His hands' lack of constant shaking kept him too distracted to sleep, anyway.