Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
But none of that seems important right now. I don't feel like I'm staring at my father's house but the dwelling of someone else. A monster I'm afraid of.
I know I should stop describing him as such because he really is a good man at heart. But at times like this, when I know everything good in him is dead and buried under years of horrible, unending guilt, he becomes everything I'm afraid of. In some ways he's like a zombie. You know why zombie movies are so absolutely terrifying? Because people's loved ones get turned. They get bitten, they get infected, they cease to be human. They turn and become something to fear. And what can you do but kill them? What choice do you have? Otherwise, you'll get killed yourself or become exactly like them.
"Take all the time in the world," Laz says softly.
I glance at him, wanting him to be my courage. I feel stronger with him here yet it's almost made it scarier, knowing he's going to see this world through my eyes.
"I'm ready. Let's go."
Maybe it won't be that bad.
We get out of the car and I notice the nearest neighbor across the street is standing on her front porch, broom in hand, staring at us suspiciously. I give her a wave, my way of letting her know everything is going to be okay, and she doesn't move, doesn't say anything.
I have to wonder how loud it's been or what he's been doing if she's noticing.
We head up the steps. The screen door is half off on its hinges. The main door is open a crack. If I didn't know any better I would say that this looked like the beginning of a crime scene.
It makes me pause, I'll give it that. Laz reaches down and holds my hand, squeezing it so tight it almost hurts. I'm not sure if it's more for me or for him.
Laz holds open the screen door and I push the front door in gently. "Dad?" I call out. "It's me, Marina. Your daughter."
Silence.
I open the door wider. Dust motes float in a lone sunbeam that's made its way through one of the curtains. Other than that, the house is dim. Brown carpet, brown fake wood walls. It stinks. Like, horrible. Vomit, piss, who knows what else.
I cover my nose with my hand and take in a few breaths before I say, "Dad?" again.
Laz is behind me, stepping in flush against my back. His hand is now at my waist, his grip firm, letting me know he's here. My rock.
Then I hear a moan from the living room.
I walk in, my shoes squishing on the wet carpet, and look around the corner.
The cat, Pickles, sees us and immediately runs off to the kitchen, disappearing through the cat door.
My father is sprawled out on the floor, face down. Vomit beside him in a puddle, in his hair. The backs of his pants are stained with shit.
I gasp, instinctively turning toward Laz, trying to run.
But Laz doesn't move an inch, he’s a wall keeping me in.
"He needs help," he manages to say.
I know he does. God, I know he does.
I nod, trying to steel myself, and turn back around.
"Dad?" I walk over to him and get down to a crouch, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"Who is there?" he mumbles, his muscles stiffening under my touch.
"Dad, it's Marina. It's me."
"Fuck do you want?"
So he's angry. I was hoping that maybe he was so inebriated that he would be easy to deal with. That we could prop him up and clean him off and he'd be as limp and sedate as a ragdoll. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
"I came by to check on you," I say, trying to keep my voice light and steady.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he growls and lifts his head to look at me.
But it's not my father anymore. A blackness resides in his gaze, coming from a pit inside him, a pit that fuels nothing but hate and misery. It's evil.
"Dad," I say softly, trying to smile. "I'm just here to help. Let's get you cleaned up."
I grab his arm to help him up but he shoves me away instead so I fall backward onto my butt.
"Marina," Laz says, coming to me.
"Who are you?" my father asks, glaring at him.
He's met Laz a few times, he knows who he is.
Laz pauses and then helps me to my feet. "I'm Marina's friend. We're just here to help you with whatever you need."
"Help me?" my father roars. He rolls over on his side and tries to get to his feet, his darkened eyes never leaving us, his arm waving wildly for the coffee table for support. "Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here and helping me. Both of you fucking high and mighty. Just get out. Leave!"