My stomach twists.
About once every few months, they have a ‘getting clean’ day. It starts off well. They do things around the house, drink coffee, pay bills, and sometimes go shopping instead of me getting the food delivered. Dad makes the only dish he can cook: spaghetti carbonara. Every time I come into the house and smell a carbonara, I know I’m going to get at least one good day.
It doesn’t take long—maybe one to two days tops—before they’re reaching for the vodka again.
There is still a lot of money in the account from Dad’s payout. We own the house outright, and we only have utilities to pay for. They don’t go anywhere or do anything besides drink cheap booze. If they hadn’t become drunks, they could have used the money to set themselves up very nicely.
Sometimes I want to take all of that money and run. I’ve never been able to take a penny to spend on myself. It feels like dirty money. If we didn’t have it, my parents would be normal. We didn’t have a lot before, but we were happy.
I close the front door and walk into the living room. Grinding my teeth, I watch them passed out on the sofas for a second. The usual décor litters the living room. Empty bottles and cans.
Fuck this. I grab the remote and turn the TV off.
They can’t be happy. I know I’m not.
I throw the remote down on the other sofa and leave the room. When was the last time they went to bed? Like, brushed their teeth, changed into pyjamas and got into a proper bed? All I can ever recall is them sleeping here.
They haven’t even made me breakfast since I was about nine. Mum was a high-functioning alcoholic for a few years, going to work and feeding me, but she wasn’t really present and never did anything with me. Then it swallowed her whole.
I head upstairs to my own room—my sanctuary. It’s still in the vicinity of the house they own, so it will never be a place I want to be long-term, but at least they’re not in here.
Today has been amazing and exhausting. All of the people who mean the most to me get along. I should be jumping for joy, but tonight isn’t going to be a regular thing. There will be no finishing work then meeting each other for a drink. Soon, Spencer’s workdays will be twelve or more hours long in another country again. We’ve already lost touch so much and this is only the first movie.
I get ready for bed, and surprisingly, since my mind is working overtime, I fall asleep quickly.
When I wake in the morning, it’s just after seven. I’m usually up earlier.
You haven’t checked them.
I climb out of bed and rush downstairs with my heart in my mouth.
Every step I take chills me by another degree. What if they’re not okay?
I live in constant fear of finding them dead. God, I have got to get out of this house.
Clenching my hands as I reach the bottom step, I offer a silent prayer. Please let my parents be breathing.
I’m not even religious.
My heart thuds loudly as I peek around the corner.
Mum stirs in her sleep and rolls onto her back. I turn my attention to Dad. He hasn’t moved yet, and I can’t see the rise and fall of his chest.
Shit.
Please.
Shuffling closer, I swallow a sob and raise my trembling hand to place it in front of his mouth.
Please.
Air hits the palm of my hand, and I sink to the floor in relief.
Dropping my hand, I steady myself and take a breath.
It’s okay. They’re okay. You’re okay.
It’s not like this is even the first time I’ve had to get this close to check. I ache with the knowledge that it won’t be the last, either. Why don’t they want our old life?
Bile stings the back of my throat. I push myself to my feet and run upstairs, taking them two at a time. Slamming the bathroom door, I grip the sink and close my eyes.
Just get ready and get out.
This house is as toxic as they are. There’s nothing comforting about being here. I don’t look forward to getting back. The ‘there’s no place like home’ adage is absolute bullshit.
I shower and get dressed with a knot in my stomach. I can’t stand it here.
I’ve searched for rentals so many times, but I won’t have enough money for rent, utilities, uni, and savings if I leave now. What if things don’t work out, and my only choice is to move back with my parents? That can’t happen to me. I don’t have them as a backup.
My best chance is to suck it up and get myself stable, with a decent full-time job before I leave.
There can be no coming back if I fall, so I have to succeed.
I wonder if they’ll even remember the day I move out. They’re never sober. Would they look for me? Miss me? They’d miss someone making sure there is food in the house, cleaning, and taking the rubbish out, I suppose.
Who will do that when I’m gone?
I shake my head as hot water drenches my body. They’re not my responsibility. I’ve tried everything I can think of to get them to stop drinking, and each time they’ve picked alcohol over me. I gave up hoping they’d get better a long time ago. Now all I can do is protect myself.
I turn the water off and get out. Cool air makes my skin pebble, so I quickly wrap a towel around my body.
There isn’t a lot of time before I need to leave. My therapist will be waiting for me. She’s going on holiday for two weeks and said she could fit me in on a Sunday morning or I’d end up going three weeks until I saw her next.
I can’t go that long.
I get dry, dressed, put make-up on, and I blow dry my hair into curls.
