My eyes widened as I took in his posture. Only two days since my last visit and the alcohol had already taken away his spine. All he was now was a man who had given up all hope. No longer the father. No longer the man who would do anything for his children. He grouched at my persistence but he slumped back towards his chair. The seat firmly merged with his body at this point. We didn't exchange any pleasantries today. There was nothing left to say. Everything we had for each other was spoken long ago. It was the reason he let me keep coming back, I think, I didn't ask stupid questions anymore. He knew what I was. I knew what he was.
But, the longer we stayed staring off into the brickwork of his house, the stronger the smell became. A pungent mixture of unwashed clothes and stale whiskey. The scent burned sense into me. Something had to change. "We're not getting anywhere like this."
The older man sighed. "No we're not, are we? Why are you here then? You didn't seem to want to do more than watch me last time." The bite behind his words was not lost on me.
"I told you before, I want to help." I wouldn't let him laugh me off this time. "Get up." I hoped with my heart that he hadn't drunk already that day. It was morning after all. But that would imply he stopped.
He looked at me quizzically. The look was not a new one to me.
I stood up.
He didn't follow.
I stared him down, arms folded.
He shrugged, unrelentingly. "I'm quite content where I am." He snarked before crossing his feet on the coffee table – and the litany of empty take-out containers layered on top of it.
I shook my head and stepped forward, taking hold of the armrest and dragging him and the chair across the floor. The wood made an ungodly screech as I did. He tried to pull himself free but his strength had long since faded. The chair and its passenger came to a stop, leaving him in the middle of the room. The old man sat there, looking up at me with confusion in his eyes. "I am planning to do something for them but I need to know I can leave you on your own without dying. So. Get. Up."
He tried to protest, but the look I shot him cut him off. Slowly, he slid his legs back to the floor before pushing himself to his feet. His entire body trembled under the strain. "Good, now let's get you cleaned up shall we." We both knew it wasn't a question.
He was reluctant. But the man eventually let me drag him through his home, and up the stairs, until we were both standing in front of the bathroom. "Do you need me to hold your hand?" I smirked at his ire.
He didn't bother gracing me with an answer. He just pushed the door open and stumbled inside. I let him go. There was no reason not to at this point. As he began to peel away his sweat-stained clothes, he spoke up, his gruff voice low. "Thank you." I didn't bother with a response, instead opting to go back into the living room.
I heard the water turn on. I let out a sigh of relief. It had been a gamble. There was a chance he had gone to bed with his boots on or simply refused to let me take control. The fact he agreed meant he still had a fighting spirit. The same spirit that scoured the mountain for months. And the longer he kept that, the easier it would be to get him to see my side of things.
I started my task, clearing the coffee table, and throwing the empty bottles, cartons and plates into the bin bag. There would be no saving those rotting pieces.
As I was doing so, I couldn't help but think about what the future would hold. What would I do if he did agree? We weren't in the clearest states of mind, we would need something to get the upper hand. My eyes went towards my Jornal, perhaps there was something I had overlooked before.