Addiction's Daughter

            Amber liquid sloshed as waves crashed against the glass wall.  The tall neck of the bottle was stained with fresh fingerprints as lingering drops of the liquid found their way back to the amber ocean.  The liquid mingled with the blood of a man that has been tarnished for most of his life by the substance.  Whiskey is his drug of choice, and he uses it often.

***

            The phone’s shrill ring frightens me because when the phone screams my mom yells.  My grandmother tries to redirect my eavesdropping toward a book or some sort of game.  My grandfather comes in, sees the phone, and hears the yelling.  The screaming doesn’t end after the phone slams on its base.

***

            Occasionally, when the yelling wasn’t so bad, my mom passed the phone to me.  “You have a right to know who he is,” she explained.  I wish I didn’t.

***

I was a five year old ballerina but preferred climbing tall trees with my older cousin"he was only nine days older"Christopher.  I liked rolling down sloping hills, quickly jumping up and laughing as I fell to the ground.  I wore blue jean jumper dresses, always gave my opinion whether it was polite or not, and I loved being outdoors.  I called my grandfather Daddy.

            Other children in kindergarten could create family trees with pictures of their mommies and daddies.  My family tree was always lopsided, and the other kids teased me. 

            The first time I saw him he was inhuman, a myth. 

Heart racing, palms sweating, a child’s curiosity, I slowly stepped forward.  My mom rubbed my back and smiled gently at me.  About three feet from the man I froze in my place; I stared at his height, lean stature, and determination.  “Are you my daddy?”

***

            “Your dad isn’t around because we couldn’t live together,” my mom sighed, “he is a very sick man, Nik.”  The symptoms of his disease are slurring words, confusing everyone, calling only when it suites him, and getting away from his children. 

He’ll take the foam covered dingy liquid that often comes in a silver aluminum can with bold, blue lettering.  He escapes the torment of his reality a little more with each sip of the beer.  A bad childhood floats away, a lost child almost never happened and maybe he didn’t really mess up his life by leaving his four daughters behind without the protection of a strong father figure.

***

            I was a good hearted thirteen year old girl the year my father decided to come to home to South Carolina.  I lost the tutus but kept climbing trees.  I was the last to hug my great grandmother before she died in the nursing home, and my best friend"a five year old faithful miniature dachshund"had been accidently poisoned by my next door neighbor.  I counted the number of beers my father drank in front of me or sometimes the liquor bottles sitting in the camper he where was staying.  Fake smiles, unclear answers, I learned what disappointment felt like.

***

            “Your dad’s been in a car accident.”

            The online newspaper shows twisted metal.  A rebel flag on the cab of a truck.  A salty droplet escapes the stubborn pools above my nose.  My hands tremble.  The phone screams; once, twice, three times. 

            “Don’t you know; I’m God, baby girl.  I’m not going to die, I’m going to mean away.”

 

***

            The words flow so closely together, I think he says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, baby girl.”  I know that’s just wishful thinking.

            “Are you drunk?”  I don’t want to know the truth; I never want to know the truth.

            “No,” slurred along with more jumbled phrases not easily understood.

            The base of the phone line almost immediately sucks the receiver away from my palm.  The phone screams.  Once, twice, three times.  A salty droplet escapes the stubborn pools above my nose.  My hands tremble.  I won’t let him get to me this time.  Once, twice, three times.  The phone repeats itself so many times that I lose track, my grandmother rubs my shoulder before taking the phone off the base. 

            In that moment, I realize that a part of him has beaten me this time.  He won’t win forever.  I won’t let him get the best of me.  I look at the whiskey in the bottle, and the beer can.  The different alcohols blend together in a sinking whirlpool as the liquid clears the drain.

***

            I am a lost twenty-one year old writer.  My best friends are pens, paper, and Stephen King novels along with the delusional ravings of Edgar Allan Poe.  I am the girl fighting against littering, air pollution, and drunk driving.  I glare at ABC signs.  When the phone rings, I cringe.

            The raven on my window sill never speaks.  My room fills with darkness, but there’s never any fear.  The phone rings.  Once, twice, three times.  I answer waiting to hear his voice but silence fills my ear.  

Author's Note

Dr. Hammond from USCL taught a Creative Writing course over the span of 3 weeks during the summer of 2012. I adore her because she's an incredible teacher, and she pulled this out of me while teaching me how to do the 'show don't tell' thing.