Baby I've Got My Eye On You
Twenty One
The morning came sooner than I’d have liked it to. Outside, the weather was a suffering a bland a bleak status, as if setting a bad omen in terms of how the rest of the day would pan out. Behind me, Syn was attempting a world record for the noisiest possible way of getting dressed, or so it seemed, as he mumbled and grunted through the task of pulling on his jeans. I watched him in the mirror with a discreet smile as I put on my ‘face’; inside I dreaded the forthcoming Saturday, knowing that I’d miss out on cutely hilarious episodes like this, let alone be next to abandoned for what could roll on to months, if he ever came back for me at all. Once done, he turned to me with a philosophical glint in his eyes before surveying the room. The sigh that escaped his lips said the words that grew fat and tumorus in my mind.
“It feels different, doesn’t it?” he said, “Like the atmosphere…”
I understood him completely. Over the previous weeks, my house seemed to wriggle with laughter and all-round was a pleasant place to be. However, it now seemed to have seeped back in to it’s dismal, depressive state that I familiarised with from my childhood: a house; four walls, a roof, windows and doors, but no heart. It wasn’t a home.
I did little but nod in response before collecting the courage it would take to face my father that morning. Having not seen him in such a long time, I was unaware of the depth of his depression, and despite the pervious night’s revelation into his new found alcoholism, seeing him in the company of half a dozen empty bottles of wine, about to crack open a new friend, was more than slightly daunting.
“What are you doing, Dad?” I asked as I approached him, hearing the crunch of the carpet behind me as Brian acted as my protective shadow.
I didn’t get an answer. Infact, as my eyes locked on to his weary face, I was sure he hadn’t moved from his seat since I left him the night before, with the exception of his need to remove every drip of alcohol from the house: by the looks of things, he could have even made an early morning run for more ‘fuel’.
“Dad!” I repeated, clicking my fingers before his eyes and yet getting no response, “You have to stop this Dad. Talk to me!”
After moments of waiting for him to respond to my pleas of desperation, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder: Brian. Brian being supportive. Brian being protective. Brian being there without me having to ask; at least someone could be accounted as the ‘real man’ in my life, one with a sense of duty rather than a taste for whisky.
“Dad” I said with a pause, allowing me time to swallow the obscenities my mouth wanted to throw out, “This is my boyfriend, Brian.”
I brought Syn in to the equation, grabbing his hand and pulling him gently forward in to my father’s eye line; Dad remained unresponsive, staring into space, showing no interest in who or what I was talking about, and therefore, showing just as much interest in my wellbeing as my mother had when she left us all.
“He’s twenty three, nearly twenty four. He’s a guitarist in a band, they go out partying and cause trouble all the time” I said bitterly, feeling the hot sting of tears as the gathered in the corners of my eyes. I wanted a reaction. I wanted a paternal instinct from him. I wanted fatherly concern; I got nothing.
“…He’s covered in tattoos and piercings, long hair, egotistical personality…” I went on, waiting for… something.
“…Our sex life is pretty much the definition of active. You probably realise, I slept with him before even going out on a date - ”
“Roz” Brian interrupted, either uncomfortable with what I was doing or worried about the psychological outcome would be for myself and my father, yet I carried on, determined, void of all notion of embarrassment, just wanting to hurt my dad more than he already was, just for being weak, for not understanding how this effected more than just himself.
“I’ve been seeing him about, oh 8 weeks now. I met him on a park bench. Random that, isn’t it dad?”
Nothing. Nothing but a bleak stare that had grown out of self-pity and simply had become selfishness personified.
“Oh well. I just thought I’d fill you in with the details, seeing as I wont see you in a while…” My eyes rested on Brian’s for once, rather than that of my embarrassment of a father, “…I’m leaving on Saturday. I’m going on tour with him.”
“It feels different, doesn’t it?” he said, “Like the atmosphere…”
I understood him completely. Over the previous weeks, my house seemed to wriggle with laughter and all-round was a pleasant place to be. However, it now seemed to have seeped back in to it’s dismal, depressive state that I familiarised with from my childhood: a house; four walls, a roof, windows and doors, but no heart. It wasn’t a home.
I did little but nod in response before collecting the courage it would take to face my father that morning. Having not seen him in such a long time, I was unaware of the depth of his depression, and despite the pervious night’s revelation into his new found alcoholism, seeing him in the company of half a dozen empty bottles of wine, about to crack open a new friend, was more than slightly daunting.
“What are you doing, Dad?” I asked as I approached him, hearing the crunch of the carpet behind me as Brian acted as my protective shadow.
I didn’t get an answer. Infact, as my eyes locked on to his weary face, I was sure he hadn’t moved from his seat since I left him the night before, with the exception of his need to remove every drip of alcohol from the house: by the looks of things, he could have even made an early morning run for more ‘fuel’.
“Dad!” I repeated, clicking my fingers before his eyes and yet getting no response, “You have to stop this Dad. Talk to me!”
After moments of waiting for him to respond to my pleas of desperation, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder: Brian. Brian being supportive. Brian being protective. Brian being there without me having to ask; at least someone could be accounted as the ‘real man’ in my life, one with a sense of duty rather than a taste for whisky.
“Dad” I said with a pause, allowing me time to swallow the obscenities my mouth wanted to throw out, “This is my boyfriend, Brian.”
I brought Syn in to the equation, grabbing his hand and pulling him gently forward in to my father’s eye line; Dad remained unresponsive, staring into space, showing no interest in who or what I was talking about, and therefore, showing just as much interest in my wellbeing as my mother had when she left us all.
“He’s twenty three, nearly twenty four. He’s a guitarist in a band, they go out partying and cause trouble all the time” I said bitterly, feeling the hot sting of tears as the gathered in the corners of my eyes. I wanted a reaction. I wanted a paternal instinct from him. I wanted fatherly concern; I got nothing.
“…He’s covered in tattoos and piercings, long hair, egotistical personality…” I went on, waiting for… something.
“…Our sex life is pretty much the definition of active. You probably realise, I slept with him before even going out on a date - ”
“Roz” Brian interrupted, either uncomfortable with what I was doing or worried about the psychological outcome would be for myself and my father, yet I carried on, determined, void of all notion of embarrassment, just wanting to hurt my dad more than he already was, just for being weak, for not understanding how this effected more than just himself.
“I’ve been seeing him about, oh 8 weeks now. I met him on a park bench. Random that, isn’t it dad?”
Nothing. Nothing but a bleak stare that had grown out of self-pity and simply had become selfishness personified.
“Oh well. I just thought I’d fill you in with the details, seeing as I wont see you in a while…” My eyes rested on Brian’s for once, rather than that of my embarrassment of a father, “…I’m leaving on Saturday. I’m going on tour with him.”