Drunk.
Chapter One
-Kellin-
My mother walked out on me when I was only seven years old. Although I was young, I remember everything so clearly, as if I watched a video of it just the other day.
My mother and father weren't doing too well. They were fighting much too often, starting fights over the simplest things and make them drag on for hours to the point where they completely forgot what they were fighting about, but that didn't stop them.
A few days before my mom left, they had the worst fight they had ever had. It started the night before, when they were having an argument over how my father spent too much of his time at the bar and not with my mom and I. I remember that night as I lay in bed twiddling with my thumbs as I listened to the screaming match of my parents that this was going to lead to something much worse than the silent treatment. And I was right.
The next day it started off as any normal morning after a fight; they didn't speak to each other. However, this normally lasted until around four in the afternoon when they would bring up something else and have another fight and repeat the cycle all over again the next day. But that day it was different. They started fighting again at noon, something that had never happened before. They had sent me to the neighbor's house at around 10 o'clock because they knew they were going to fight soon and didn't want me to hear it. And I didn't hear it until I got home at four. They had stopped screaming for a half an hour so my mother could make me a snack - my usual handful of pretzels, an Oreo, and a glass of chocolate milk - and tell me to go upstairs and watch some television or "whatever you want to do." I was in my room playing with my toy cars for not even five minutes when the arguing started again.
"You need to start spending time with your God damn family instead of going out and getting wasted in fucking 2 in the afternoon!"
"Maybe the reason I go out all the time is so I can get away from you!"
And I swear to God I heard things like this until 9 o'clock at night. I couldn't sleep no matter how hard I tried to block out the sound. It even got to the point where I went into my parents' room - well, more like my mother's room. The nights my dad isn't at the bar getting wasted, he sleeps on the couch, reeking of alcohol and sweat from his lack of showering - to get my mom's noise-blocking headphones. And even though I couldn't hear the sound, the thought that they were still arguing downstairs in the kitchen, whether I could hear it or not, made me sick to my stomach, so I just took them out. At that moment, I heard glass smash and a short, loud scream.
I knew I wasn't supposed to go downstairs during fights, but this was something that had never happened before. And despite the fact that I was only nine years old, if something had happened to one of my parents and I didn't at least try to help, I didn't know what I would do. When I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, I swear I almost puked right on the spot.
My mom's hand was sliced open, and small fragments of glass were visibly deep inside the wound. What looks like a vase is shattered on the floor below my seething father, staring down at my crying mother with a red face as he breathed heavily. I guess I made a slight noise when I saw the scene because I dad turned away from my mom for a split second and stared right into my eyes.
"Upstairs!" he roared, his hands shaking from his anger. I took a look at my mother and I wish I hadn't. She was staring at me with pleading eyes, tears were streaming down her face mixed with mascara and eyeliner, and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon. But I did what I knew would keep me safe, because I knew in the end, helping her wouldn't change a thing.
So I ran back upstairs into my bedroom, dove under the blankets, and listened to the yelling of my parents.
Around three o'clock in the morning, my mother came into my room. I remember her closing the door silently behind her and sitting down onto my bed, stroking my cheek and muttering something along the lines of "It wasn't your fault" and "Everything will be okay." Her hand was bandaged up, but I could tell it wasn't my dad who had helped her. Even though it was dark inside my room, I could still clearly see that there were tears in her bloodshot eyes. Right away I knew that something wasn't right. She would never be like this on an average night. And I was right. She left the next morning. Everything was gone, it was like there was no evidence that she ever been there in the first place. All that was there were my father's beer bottles, clothes, and trash strewn across the house. But the night before she left, she said one thing to me that is the only reason I'm still holding on.
"Listen to me, Kellin. You can get through this, I promise. I wish I could take you with me, but I can't. I would have to have your father's permission, which I know he wouldn't allow. But I believe that you can get through this, and when you do turn eighteen, you can leave this hell hole and you can have the happy life you deserve. This isn't fair, Kellin, and I know that it isn't fair. But I just can't bring you with me, and believe me, I want to. I don't want you to live like this. But I promise you Kellin, as your mother, that the day you turn eighteen I'll be here, and you can come with me. I don't care what you do after that. You can stay with me, or you can go off to wherever you want to go, as long as you're happy. Because that's what you deserve. I promise you I will be back. I just hope you can promise me that you'll be here to greet me." She held her pinky out in the air, and without hesitation, I help mine up and locked it with hers.
And with that, she got up, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and closed the door. I could hear her scurrying to pick up what I assume were her bags before I listened to car roaring to life as I drove across the paved driveway.
She left Michigan. She left her abusive drunk of a husband. She left my abusive drunk of a father. She left her life behind.
She left me.
-----------
"Fuck you, dad," I muttered to myself as I stared up at the giant building in front of me.
Nine years ago, my mother left. I'm sixteen now. Things have changed a bit ever since my mom walked out. And by things, I do not include my father.
My father is still the same; a drunk, pathetic excuse for a parent who goes to bars at night until six in the morning and sleeps until eight at night and starts the whole routine over again. One thing has changed though.
He's abusive.
After three years of not having my mom around to be his personal punching bag, I guess he cracked and took it out on me. Ever since, he's beaten over the smallest things. In fact, he barged into my room one night at five o'clock in the morning and punched me until I could barely breathe because I forgot to take the trash out (Not like there was anything in there, all the trash is on the living room floor). He used to hit me anywhere, but people started asking about the bruises on my face, so he started paying more attention to anything I could hide with clothing.
We don't live in Michigan anymore, either. We moved to San Diego, California, not even two days ago. He claims that it was because he was tired of our tiny town in the middle of the country. But I'm pretty sure it was because the package store refused to sell him any alcohol as he was practically buying at least three or four cases of beer each day. After that, we packed up and moved to a small, two story house in California.
Anyways, today was my first day at a brand new school, and to say I was freaking out was an understatement. At my last school, no one paid any attention to me, I had one friend, and that was it. No one else talked to me, and I was perfectly okay with that. I'm just praying that things will be the same here, and if I'm lucky, possibly even better.
There's three possible outcomes in a situation like this.
1: I make absolutely no friends and everyone hates me and laughs at me every day.
2: I make absolutely no friends and no one pays any attention to me.
3: I actually make some friends and I stop becoming such a sad loser.
I'm praying for the third one, although the second wouldn't be terrible.
As I walked inside, I thanked God that the office was standing right in front of me so I wouldn't have to go up to a stranger and ask where it was. I opened the doors of the office to find about five or six blue, comfy-looking chairs pressed up against a wall in he far corner. To the left, there was a long corridor which I assumed led to the principal's and vice principal's offices. In the center of the large room, there was a large desk with a woman sitting behind, who I saw was named Miss. McDougall. I walked up to the desk, and she looked up from her pile of papers and flashed a smile.
"Are you Kellin Quinn?"
I cleared my throat before speaking. "Yes, yes I am."
She didn't say anything for a moment, just shifted through another pile of papers before handing me a white piece of paper which I automatically knew was my schedule. I also noticed that on the back, there was a map of the school, which I was grateful. She handed me the paper with another small smile.
"First period starts in about ten minutes, so I would get moving. I think you will enjoy it here, Kellin."
Yeah, we'll see about that.
My mother walked out on me when I was only seven years old. Although I was young, I remember everything so clearly, as if I watched a video of it just the other day.
My mother and father weren't doing too well. They were fighting much too often, starting fights over the simplest things and make them drag on for hours to the point where they completely forgot what they were fighting about, but that didn't stop them.
A few days before my mom left, they had the worst fight they had ever had. It started the night before, when they were having an argument over how my father spent too much of his time at the bar and not with my mom and I. I remember that night as I lay in bed twiddling with my thumbs as I listened to the screaming match of my parents that this was going to lead to something much worse than the silent treatment. And I was right.
The next day it started off as any normal morning after a fight; they didn't speak to each other. However, this normally lasted until around four in the afternoon when they would bring up something else and have another fight and repeat the cycle all over again the next day. But that day it was different. They started fighting again at noon, something that had never happened before. They had sent me to the neighbor's house at around 10 o'clock because they knew they were going to fight soon and didn't want me to hear it. And I didn't hear it until I got home at four. They had stopped screaming for a half an hour so my mother could make me a snack - my usual handful of pretzels, an Oreo, and a glass of chocolate milk - and tell me to go upstairs and watch some television or "whatever you want to do." I was in my room playing with my toy cars for not even five minutes when the arguing started again.
"You need to start spending time with your God damn family instead of going out and getting wasted in fucking 2 in the afternoon!"
"Maybe the reason I go out all the time is so I can get away from you!"
And I swear to God I heard things like this until 9 o'clock at night. I couldn't sleep no matter how hard I tried to block out the sound. It even got to the point where I went into my parents' room - well, more like my mother's room. The nights my dad isn't at the bar getting wasted, he sleeps on the couch, reeking of alcohol and sweat from his lack of showering - to get my mom's noise-blocking headphones. And even though I couldn't hear the sound, the thought that they were still arguing downstairs in the kitchen, whether I could hear it or not, made me sick to my stomach, so I just took them out. At that moment, I heard glass smash and a short, loud scream.
I knew I wasn't supposed to go downstairs during fights, but this was something that had never happened before. And despite the fact that I was only nine years old, if something had happened to one of my parents and I didn't at least try to help, I didn't know what I would do. When I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, I swear I almost puked right on the spot.
My mom's hand was sliced open, and small fragments of glass were visibly deep inside the wound. What looks like a vase is shattered on the floor below my seething father, staring down at my crying mother with a red face as he breathed heavily. I guess I made a slight noise when I saw the scene because I dad turned away from my mom for a split second and stared right into my eyes.
"Upstairs!" he roared, his hands shaking from his anger. I took a look at my mother and I wish I hadn't. She was staring at me with pleading eyes, tears were streaming down her face mixed with mascara and eyeliner, and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon. But I did what I knew would keep me safe, because I knew in the end, helping her wouldn't change a thing.
So I ran back upstairs into my bedroom, dove under the blankets, and listened to the yelling of my parents.
Around three o'clock in the morning, my mother came into my room. I remember her closing the door silently behind her and sitting down onto my bed, stroking my cheek and muttering something along the lines of "It wasn't your fault" and "Everything will be okay." Her hand was bandaged up, but I could tell it wasn't my dad who had helped her. Even though it was dark inside my room, I could still clearly see that there were tears in her bloodshot eyes. Right away I knew that something wasn't right. She would never be like this on an average night. And I was right. She left the next morning. Everything was gone, it was like there was no evidence that she ever been there in the first place. All that was there were my father's beer bottles, clothes, and trash strewn across the house. But the night before she left, she said one thing to me that is the only reason I'm still holding on.
"Listen to me, Kellin. You can get through this, I promise. I wish I could take you with me, but I can't. I would have to have your father's permission, which I know he wouldn't allow. But I believe that you can get through this, and when you do turn eighteen, you can leave this hell hole and you can have the happy life you deserve. This isn't fair, Kellin, and I know that it isn't fair. But I just can't bring you with me, and believe me, I want to. I don't want you to live like this. But I promise you Kellin, as your mother, that the day you turn eighteen I'll be here, and you can come with me. I don't care what you do after that. You can stay with me, or you can go off to wherever you want to go, as long as you're happy. Because that's what you deserve. I promise you I will be back. I just hope you can promise me that you'll be here to greet me." She held her pinky out in the air, and without hesitation, I help mine up and locked it with hers.
And with that, she got up, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and closed the door. I could hear her scurrying to pick up what I assume were her bags before I listened to car roaring to life as I drove across the paved driveway.
She left Michigan. She left her abusive drunk of a husband. She left my abusive drunk of a father. She left her life behind.
She left me.
-----------
"Fuck you, dad," I muttered to myself as I stared up at the giant building in front of me.
Nine years ago, my mother left. I'm sixteen now. Things have changed a bit ever since my mom walked out. And by things, I do not include my father.
My father is still the same; a drunk, pathetic excuse for a parent who goes to bars at night until six in the morning and sleeps until eight at night and starts the whole routine over again. One thing has changed though.
He's abusive.
After three years of not having my mom around to be his personal punching bag, I guess he cracked and took it out on me. Ever since, he's beaten over the smallest things. In fact, he barged into my room one night at five o'clock in the morning and punched me until I could barely breathe because I forgot to take the trash out (Not like there was anything in there, all the trash is on the living room floor). He used to hit me anywhere, but people started asking about the bruises on my face, so he started paying more attention to anything I could hide with clothing.
We don't live in Michigan anymore, either. We moved to San Diego, California, not even two days ago. He claims that it was because he was tired of our tiny town in the middle of the country. But I'm pretty sure it was because the package store refused to sell him any alcohol as he was practically buying at least three or four cases of beer each day. After that, we packed up and moved to a small, two story house in California.
Anyways, today was my first day at a brand new school, and to say I was freaking out was an understatement. At my last school, no one paid any attention to me, I had one friend, and that was it. No one else talked to me, and I was perfectly okay with that. I'm just praying that things will be the same here, and if I'm lucky, possibly even better.
There's three possible outcomes in a situation like this.
1: I make absolutely no friends and everyone hates me and laughs at me every day.
2: I make absolutely no friends and no one pays any attention to me.
3: I actually make some friends and I stop becoming such a sad loser.
I'm praying for the third one, although the second wouldn't be terrible.
As I walked inside, I thanked God that the office was standing right in front of me so I wouldn't have to go up to a stranger and ask where it was. I opened the doors of the office to find about five or six blue, comfy-looking chairs pressed up against a wall in he far corner. To the left, there was a long corridor which I assumed led to the principal's and vice principal's offices. In the center of the large room, there was a large desk with a woman sitting behind, who I saw was named Miss. McDougall. I walked up to the desk, and she looked up from her pile of papers and flashed a smile.
"Are you Kellin Quinn?"
I cleared my throat before speaking. "Yes, yes I am."
She didn't say anything for a moment, just shifted through another pile of papers before handing me a white piece of paper which I automatically knew was my schedule. I also noticed that on the back, there was a map of the school, which I was grateful. She handed me the paper with another small smile.
"First period starts in about ten minutes, so I would get moving. I think you will enjoy it here, Kellin."
Yeah, we'll see about that.