Perdetevi.

The sound of a shattered glass made Monica shoot up in her bed.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Her Dad’s voice boomed.
She wished she was back at Ricky’s, curled up in his bed under a heap of blankets and freezing half to death. Even with the smell of Old Spice permeating everything in the room and the way his bed was too comfortable to be comfortable at all. She wanted to be anywhere but this small apartment overhearing her parents latest fight.
Another fight, it turned her stomach. She felt her body curling in on herself without her telling it to. Her breaths came sharp and short and she tried to fight back the nausea clenching her stomach and working its way up her throat to meet with her rapidly beating heart that was already stuck there.
“I think I’m the wife of an asshole!” Her Mother yelled back.
The door slammed twice and then there was more yelling, now muffled. Monica couldn’t make out what they were saying but the sound pulled tears from her eyes. She crept from her room and across to Charlie’s but he wasn’t there. She assumed he went to Ricky’s, but he could have gone to any of his friends houses, he certainly had a lot.

Monica was quivering. She was alone in the early hours of the morning. In just a few hours she would be at school, pretending that she had gotten sleep and everything was OK. She couldn’t even conceive of going to school. She went to the kitchen and downed a glass of water, then another with a couple of aspirin.

This was it, she felt it. There was a finality hanging in the air. Monica didn’t feel as relieved as she thought she would. She felt broken and upset, it wasn’t the heartbreak kind of broken but the brokenness that comes with chaos. Her shaking wouldn’t cease and her tears burned trails down her cheeks. The abyss inside her was growing, aching to swallow her from the inside out.

There was the softest click of the door closing and she was staring at her dad who was crying just like she was. He was in an old, torn, company t-shirt that he wore to bed and a pair of athletic shorts. His brown curls, a reflection of hers, were messy because he hadn’t had a haircut in a while. Dad’s appearance reminded her of Ricky, except Dad was clean shaven and a mess emotionally. Not a mess to make himself look attractive.

“Daddy…” Monica murmured.

She hadn’t called him ‘Daddy’ in years and she watched his face crumple even more at the simple word.

“It’s OK.” He said. “It’s all going to be OK.”

Monica doubted that but didn’t say it. She crossed the living room and hugged him. Dad fell into her and sobbed. She could feel them wracking his body; feel his tears hitting her shoulders. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Monica wasn’t supposed to be the strong one, that was supposed to be Dad. He’d always been the strong one. He’d always been the glue that held everything together.

But Monica fell so easily into the position of strength. Her tears dried up, she sat him down on the rumpled sofa bed and made him tea. Her mind was calm, her thoughts and motives clear. She did everything she knew to do and she didn’t break down. To her utter surprise she kept a calm exterior and didn’t let her emotions get the better of her.