Those Worse Off Than You

"Ace," I asked, insecurely. "What... what happened? I don't understand."

He sighed, switching his view from the glass in his hand, back to me. "You really want to know?"

I nodded.

"Alright. But, it might bother you," he said, looking back down.

I nodded.

"Alright," he said. It took him a long time to start, like he was trying to figure out how to put it in the right words. Maybe he was wondering if he should even tell me. "My father... he's an alcoholic- has been since my mother died. And at times, he can get," he stopped, assuming I would know the rest.

"Your father hits you?"

"But, it's no big deal anymore- half the time I deserve it anyways. I'm no prize son."

"Why haven’t you called someone; told someone about this. Ace- this is against the law, it's dangerous. What about the pills you took earlier- they could have killed you."

"Oh well, they would have killed me."

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm serious. Sometimes I think it'd be better."

"Have you talked to anyone else about this?"

"No, what do you think they'd say?"

"It's not a stable home for someone to grow up in. They'd place you somewhere else- probably in a foster home or something."

"Yea, right," he stated, and turned around, facing the walls. "So they could find out just how screwed up I am? I'd rather not. They'd just get fed up with me and kick me out. I've already tried that anyways," he said. "It didn't work; court and everything. They sent my dad to a rehab center and said he couldn't have me back until he was clean and sober. It worked for the first couple months- then everything just went back to normal. I don't want help- I just want someone to listen; someone that isn't getting paid to listen; someone who won't tell. What do you want to do?"

"Be a friend."

"Then just listen, okay? It's just better that way."