Page 66 of Bad at Love
The cat, Pickles, sees us and immediately runs off to the kitchen, disappearing through the cat door.
My father is sprawled out on the floor, face down. Vomit beside him in a puddle, in his hair. The backs of his pants are stained with shit.
I gasp, instinctively turning toward Laz, trying to run.
But Laz doesn't move an inch, he’s a wall keeping me in.
"He needs help," he manages to say.
I know he does. God, I know he does.
I nod, trying to steel myself, and turn back around.
"Dad?" I walk over to him and get down to a crouch, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"Who is there?" he mumbles, his muscles stiffening under my touch.
"Dad, it's Marina. It's me."
"Fuck do you want?"
So he's angry. I was hoping that maybe he was so inebriated that he would be easy to deal with. That we could prop him up and clean him off and he'd be as limp and sedate as a ragdoll. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
"I came by to check on you," I say, trying to keep my voice light and steady.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he growls and lifts his head to look at me.
But it's not my father anymore. A blackness resides in his gaze, coming from a pit inside him, a pit that fuels nothing but hate and misery. It's evil.
"Dad," I say softly, trying to smile. "I'm just here to help. Let's get you cleaned up."
I grab his arm to help him up but he shoves me away instead so I fall backward onto my butt.
"Marina," Laz says, coming to me.
"Who are you?" my father asks, glaring at him.
He's met Laz a few times, he knows who he is.
Laz pauses and then helps me to my feet. "I'm Marina's friend. We're just here to help you with whatever you need."
"Help me?" my father roars. He rolls over on his side and tries to get to his feet, his darkened eyes never leaving us, his arm waving wildly for the coffee table for support. "Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here andhelpingme. Both of you fucking high and mighty. Just get out. Leave!"
I take in a deep breath but I'm shaking. "We'll go once we know you're okay."
He gets to his feet, swaying. My father is a big guy. Justas tall as Laz and twice as wide. I can feel Laz stiffen beside me. No one wants to deal with a big drunk guy who is unpredictable. Even though I don't fear for my safety, I guess I can understand why my aunt would, why anyone would. God, I miss my father so much, not this stranger that's standing in front of me.
"You're a fucking witch, aren't you?" my father slurs at me, his voice coming out low, almost demonic. "You and your fuckingtoo goodfor this worldways. You think you’re so fucking good huh, helping your poor old dad. You bitch."
"Hey," Laz says coming to my defense but I immediately elbow him to shut up. He can't provoke this beast, not now.
"Dad, I heard Margaret was here," I tell him, ignoring the insult, not letting it hurt. "She was going to call the cops."
"Call the cops then, I don't care. That's what you always wanted isn't it. Want me locked up for everything I've done. Huh, you fucking bitch."
"Mr. Owens," Laz's voice booms. "That's not how you talk to your daughter."
"She's not my daughter, she's nothing, she's no one," he says, his eyes still on me, looking harder and deeper than ever before. Then he blinks and looks at Laz in surprise, like he's just realized it was him talking. "Who the fuck? You get the fuck out."
