Page 85 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

The sucking motion in my stomach continues, sending prickles of pain through me, and I roll my lips together, not letting myself weep.

“You’re drunk again!” Mom’s scream pierces over the TV blasting throughout the room as she shakes the empty whiskey bottle in her hand. “An entire bottle in one day!” She stands in front of the TV, blocking Father’s view of the football game. He waves his hand, dismissing her while turning the volume up. “You have a job interview tomorrow! How could you, Roland?” she asks with despair lacing her tone.

She might not like him working, because she becomes jealous very quickly, which results in Dad always finding new jobs across the country, but she loves his gifts.

That’s why she always pushes him to start a new job until he stops going due to her hysterics.

Compared to most parents that I see on the playground, they are very weird and never dote on me as they should.

Instead, they dote on each other while I’m an afterthought on most days.

“I’ll be sober by morning. Now move. I’m not fucking missing the touchdown because of your nagging ass.”

Mom doesn’t listen, though, and drops the bottle on the carpeted floor where it lands softly. She points her finger at my father. “You reek of whiskey. This is not some shitty job. We’re talking about one for Lucian Cortez!” She shouts the last part, and he only chuckles, finding her words funny while I frown in confusion.

The name sounds very familiar. My parents went out one night, and I stayed all alone, having nothing better to do than read. Wasn’t he the one gracing the newspaper that spoke about his accomplishments and how he is considered one of the wealthiest men in the world? Plus, he has a very famous wife and a son my age.

Why would such a man consider hiring my father who mostly did low, odd jobs and got fired frequently, which speaks about his less than stellar ethic and character?

Although it explains why my mom is so agitated. I bet she is already counting the money she could spend on herself for a new dress.

We can starve for days, because they survive on alcohol alone during their party days, but God forbid if my mother has to stop shopping.

Once, my teacher said my parents love to live beyond their means. I didn’t understand what it meant, but I guess it might mean when your needs are more important than those of a child.

Or at least that’s the reality I’m living right now.

“So? Like I give a fuck about his social status. If he doesn’t hire me, then fuck him,” Father says, the volume increasing as Mom’s mouth drops open in shock before anger crosses her face and she fists her hands.

Clenching my blanket tighter, I close my eyes and physically feel how an invisible knife sinks into my heart, wounding it in the process, because nothing will stop the upcoming storm now.

Still though, I address my prayers to God who, according to the priests in our church, watches above us and always listens to our pleas.

Please, God. Make her shut up. Please. Let Mom go to sleep so Father can watch his game in peace.

However, all my hopes shatter when silence falls over the small motel room. “What did you do, bitch?” Dad hisses, and I glance there swiftly, seeing how Mom turned off the TV, and Dad stands up, ready to resume his game. “I’m warning you, Judith.”

“We need this job. Do you understand?” She motions around her. “We have no money left, and he offers us heaven on earth. Living arrangements, a good salary. Even Easter and Christmas bonuses. And you might blow it, because you couldn’t resist fucking drinking!”

Mom controls her addictions, indulging in alcohol when something amazing happens—or at least that’s what she says.

“It’s amazing; we need to drink and celebrate”—her favorite phrase.

My father, though, finds any excuse to drink, and he stays addicted to it for days.

Dad moves toward the small cabinet, grabbing another bottle of whiskey, and flicks it open, gulping greedily, all while keeping his gaze trained on Mom who almost shakes with fury. The AC buzzing through the room billows her blonde curls back, bringing attention to her wrinkled face, despite her young age, and several fading bruises marring her cheeks.

She lost her makeup kit during our last move, so she has nothing to hide it with. Not that people in this cheap area care one way or the other that she regularly gets beaten up.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lifts his chin toward her. “Maybe the time has come for you to pull some weight around here.”

“What?” she exclaims warily, and he nods, sipping from the bottle and groaning in pleasure before elaborating.

“All these years, I’ve struggled, working odd jobs to pay the bills because your fucking mistake made us outcasts. I’m damned tired of providing for you and the little fucker who loves to whine.” Pain slices through my soul, the sharp claws wrapping around my heart and leaving bleeding wounds, reminding me once again that my father has only one regret in this life.

Me.

Burrowing deeper into the blanket, pressing my nose into the dirty cloth that had seen better days, I listen to their conversation. Although, by this point, his regular speeches are imprinted in my brain. He repeats the same thing over and over again. Sentences that confuse me to no end. Because no matter how much I twist them in my head, they never make any sense to me.

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