Page 4 of Blood and Thorns
“Dad, where the hell are we?—”
“Do you have a way to find that money?” he interrupted, the armchair’s springs squeaking as he repositioned himself. Only then did I realise he’d fallen asleep clasping a half empty beer. Some of the liquid had splashed onto the fabric, and I made a mental note to clean it tomorrow before he realised and blamed me. “If you don’t, they’ll come after me.”
Guilt sunk my stomach. “When do you need it by?”
He licked at his teeth. “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” I fisted my hands, my blood running cold withdread. “That’s not even a week. How am I supposed to findfive grandin four days?”
Dad sneered, “This is why I told you to fucking dance; that’s where the big money is for someone as useless as you. Not working at that fucking bar. Sometimes I think you’re just as useless as your mum.”
I flinched. He only ever spoke to me like this when he’d had a drink. Every other time it was like we were acquaintances at best, and strangers at worst.
“I’m nothing like mum,” I whispered through the weight suddenly clogging my throat.
She left us broken, abandoned. I refused to be like her.
“You’re not even using your education. What the fuck was the point of going off to Uni if all you do is serve drinks? I told you English Literature was a waste of time, not that you even finished the degree.” His grip on the bottle shattered, sending liquid and glass shards everywhere. “Fuck, look what you made me do!”
“Stay still.” I quickly grabbed the glass, wary of the shallow cut across his palm.
He didn’t listen, instead slapping the hand against the fabric on the armrest. “Can you find the money or not? Because if not, then I’m fucked, and you’ll be alone.”
“Dad, I’ll?—”
“See, this would never happen if you agreed to marry Gabriel like I told you to!”
That was just another reason I’d declined Gabriel’s proposal. He thought he could buy me, offering my father money before even speaking to me.
I’d loved him once, but even before I’d caught the lying prick cheating the idea of being his wife had filled me with dread. Dad had begged me to marry him, and then take the money and divorce. But the idea had turned my stomach.
“I’ll get the money,” I said, knowing I had no choice.
Dad frowned at me, and I realised he’d aged so much these past few years. His hair was more grey than brown, and his eyes always seemed sunken. Exhausted.
He nodded, seeming pleased by my answer. “Good, you owe me.”
You owe me.
For as long as I could remember, he’d always said that to me. Everything I ate, or wore, he reminded me that I’d always owe him. That my life wasn’t a gift, as if I had any choice in being born. Then I hit eighteen, and any sort of parental responsibility he felt simply vanished. And now he didn’t care, so long as I continued to pay my way.
I dreamt about leaving. Of escaping this life… but I always found myself stuck. Trapped by a twisted sense of responsibility to make sure he was okay. That he ate, that his debts were paid on time, and he didn’t get into too much trouble with loan sharks.
At the end of the day, he was still my father, and he’d stayed with me when he could have left.
Just as he’d said, I owed him.
“Don’t worry, I know I’ll win on the next one.” His eyes that were so hard only moments ago had softened. “Trust me, Ara. It’ll get better, baby girl. I promise.”
I tried to smile, but it came out weak. Dad borrowed money to get into the poker tournaments, but he lost just as much as he won. When he won, he splurged, and when he lost, he’d borrow more. It was a vicious cycle that I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried, or begged. He’s had his arms broken, and the tip of his pinky finger removed with a pair of shears. His car had been burned to nothing but the frame, and the garage below trashed in warning. But still he borrowed money, and still he gambled.
Grabbing the blanket, I carefully tucked it around him. He’d already fallen asleep, his snores quiet as I gently removed any remaining glass shards, as well as the bottles. After making sure he was okay, I finally climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
It was a converted loft and offered me a little bit of my own space. Tossing my bag on the floor beside my bed, I ducked my head so I could get to my desk. The entire bedroom was small, sloped on both sides so dramatically even I couldn’t stand straight. Kneeling by my desk, I shoved my used notebooks to the side, mostly filled with stories and ideas that I knew would never be read by anyone but me.
At one time I had a passion for storytelling, but that died when I was forced to come home from university to find Dad beaten almost to death.
It took three months for him to recover, and in that time the guilt had been crushing. If I’d have been here, it wouldn’t have happened. I could’ve helped. Stopped the situation from escalating to that point. So I never went back.
