Page 65 of Bloom

“You didn't raise me at all.”

The moment the words leave my lips, I wish they hadn't. I didn't mean to say them aloud. I clap a hand over my mouth, like that might take them back, silently praying that Dad didn't hear me.

The way he stops in his tracks suggests otherwise.

Terrifyingly slowly, he turns, revealing an expression that’s nothing short of furious. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” The bottom step of the stairs creaks as I inch my way onto it.

“What thefuckdid you just say, Caroline?”

Dad takes a step towards me, everything about him screaming 'threat,' and the limited self-preservation skills I possess drive me upstairs. I only make it a few steps before a sweaty hand swipes at my ankle. The contact throws me off balance and I fall forward, my knees hitting woodhard. I barely get a second to process what's happening before my neck snaps backwards, a hand painfully tangled in my hair as it tries to drag me back downstairs.

Blind panic fuels my movement. Desperately, I kick out behind me. When my foot collides with something solid, Dad’s grip relents with a holler, and I take the brief reprise as my chance to escape.

I don't breathe again until I'm in my old bedroom. Slamming the door behind me, I lean against it as I clumsily engage the lock. Pain echoes through my shoulder when something heavy collides with the other side and sends me careening backwards.

“Open the fucking door, Caroline.” Fists pound the wood hard enough that it creaks under the force. “I swear to God, Caroline, open this fucking door or I'll break it down.”

Tears track steadily down my cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut as I cry into my hand, trying to muffle the sobs escaping me.

What the hell is happening?

My mind can’t comprehend the last few minutes. Can't understand how this day went from moderately crap to pretty damn terrible to...this. Sobs wrack my body and my head throbs and my knees, my chin, my shoulder are on fire, and the bangingjust won't stop.

Fear grips me by the throat as I wonder what will happen if the door gives in before his temper wears off. Glancing frantically around the room, I search for an alternate escape, coming up empty except for the window.

With no other choice, I wrench it open. I don't hesitate, I don't think, I just swing my legs over and jump. It's not a far drop but still, I whimper when my already sore knees take the brunt of the impact. Forcing myself upright, I limp down the driveway, breaking into a painful, bone-rattling run when I hear the front door open and incoherent shouting rings through the air. Moving as fast as I can, I tear around the corner and sprint down the road, not risking a single glance behind me.

The ringing in my ears, the throbbing pain, the complete and utter disbelief towards what just happened, that's all I canfocus on. I'm sobbing more than I'm breathing as I run and run and run with no destination, wishing that, just for a little while, everything would go away.

Because the bright side? Non-existent right now.

19

Easily, he names the emotion roiling in his gut.

Guilt.

Alcohol tastes vile.

I started with vodka—and immediately spat out the first sip I took. Rum isn’t for me either, I quickly learned. Gin, brandy, beer, wine, I don’t like any of it. Cocktails are so sweet, they hurt my teeth, and so complicated to make, I feel guilty ordering them. By the time I get around to whiskey, I’m not sure if I actually like it, or if my tastebuds are as drunk as I am.

I know I like it a lot more than I like myself right now.

Every sip of throat-burning liquor is accompanied by a wave of equally scorching disgust. Complete and utter disgust that I’m doing something I swore I’d never do; drowning my emotions in alcohol, beingthatperson slumped over the bar, getting drunk enough to forget, becominghim.

But I need it. I need it so bad, bad enough that the overwhelming disdain I feel towards myself isn’t quite enough to make me stop. The carefree oblivion alcohol brings is all I wantright now, despite how my hands shake as I bring glass after glass to my lips, despite the shame burning my eyes, itching my skin, twisting my gut.

I should’ve gone further than Bishop’s. I should’ve gone somewhere no one knows me, but I couldn’t. Not with a shocked fog clouding my brain and tears impeding my vision and my entire body aching. So, I came here. The only place I could think of. Where all of today’s issues began—poetic, I think.

A part of me is glad it’s a busy Saturday night, a throng of people flooding the small, dark bar. There’s more chance of being seen, sure, but it’s also easier to blend in. To slip inside unnoticed. To hide, and God, I amgoodat hiding. Hunched over at the far end of the bar, where it curves and becomes the alcove that leads to the kitchen, shielded by an artistic wall of booze, no one notices me.

No one except the bartender, of course.

I wonder if Tommy is making comparisons in his head. Watching me sit here, unable to remain upright, reeking of booze, face red and eyes droopy, and casting his mind back to the last time he saw my dad here doing the exact same thing. I wonder if this is what Dad does, if this is how he gets away with being a barely functional alcoholic without anyone noticing, if hiding in plain sight has really worked for over a decade—if it really all boils down to no one caring enough to notice.

Like father, like daughter,I bet Tommy is thinking.

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