Melody's Melodies

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She slides up the baby blue painted wall, pushing up with her lean legs and walks away from the wall, slowly, quietly making sure she makes little to no sound.

“Melody,” his voice thunders through the thin walls. “Get down here, I know you can hear me.”

Her breath gets caught in her throat. She knows what it means, she knows what’s coming, she knows she shouldn’t go, but if she doesn’t he’ll go up to where she is. He’ll make it worse for her.

She makes it to the door, walking the way she would as if she were still in the studio, gracefully sweeping her feet on the plush lavender carpet.

There’s a slight squeak of her room door as it opens, and once the wooden stairs come into her view she steps down one by one on her tippy toes, trying to be as quiet as possible.

She can see the man she calls father, head in his hands. He’s leaning against the white spotless kitchen counter. He looks as if he could be a quiet man in agony from his memories, wanting to be distant from everyone, but they both know the truth. He’s not distant at all, he’s in agony from his memories, but he’s not quiet.

Melody stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching her father, watching as he raises his head, grabbing the small glass of bourbon and pouring it down his throat. He then straightens up, turns around to yell, but then he sees her. Bloodshot red eyes focusing on her head full of long wavy hair, like her mother. She reminds him so much of her mother, and he hates it.

He hates Melody for being just like her mother.