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“So you got a woman knocked up…” he says, a smirk reaching his lips. The only thing close to a smile I’d ever seen from him.
“Shut up,” I say firmly, even though my words are slurred.
“And she wants nothing to do with you,” he continues with that same smirk.
I try to stand from the couch, but fall back down.
“I can see why.” He looks me up and down. “It’s no wonder she wants to take away your rights. You can barely take care of yourself.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Wrong, boy. I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Ha. Because you were around so much.”
“No. Because youareme.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“No?”
I wish I could wipe that stupid expression from his face, but I know he’s not real. He’s not worth it either.
“From what I can see, you got someone pregnant on accident. A mistake. I knowthatwell.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter.
“But I, unlike you, didn’t want to be a father.”
“You weren’t.”
“And you won’t be either.”
“Shut up,” I say.
“Because you’re not good enough. Not for her. Not for anyone.”
“Shut up,” I repeat, yelling this time.
I swiftly stand up and lift the bottle clenched in my fist. I throw it at the wall where he was, and it crashes against the wall, shattering into a million little pieces that sprinkle across the ground like stars against the dark wood floor.
“Fuck,” I groan, falling back onto the couch.
I put my head in my hands, rubbing at my temples. It was a bad idea to get this drunk. So drunk to the point where I’m hallucinating and having conversations with my deceased father. Even in his imagined state, he’s still the asshole he always was.
“It’s not real,” I whisper to myself. “He’snot real.”
I pull myself from the couch and walk unsteadily to the kitchen, avoiding the glass on the floor. From the cabinet I pull down a glass and pour a generous serving of ice-cold water from the fridge. I drink it down quickly, hoping it will undo the damage I’ve done to my mind and liver. I fill another glass and walk back to the couch.
I wish I could call my mother right now. I wish I could tell her everything, but I can’t. It would break her heart. And I know that if I call her in this state, it would only make her worry. I don’t want to put that on her. She’s dealt with enough in her life. She’s dealt with enough drunken assholes. I don’t want to be added to the list of men who have disappointed her.
Her own father was a drunk, and while he never physically harmed her or her mother or sisters, he did enough damage just in the way he carried himself while under the spell of the bottle. I wonder if that’s why she chose my father. They say that women marry their fathers, whether they know it or not.
To this day, I still don’t understand what she saw in him. When I was younger, she told me stories of how they met, but I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just trying to paint him in a betterlight, like she always did. I knew she did it to protect me. She said he had been romantic, sweeping her off her feet with his charm. They married after knowing each other for only three months. I wonder if it was afterward when he started to show who he really was, once he had her.
I came along shortly after that, much to both their surprises. While their marriage was quick, children hadn’t come up in conversation yet. I see now that being a father wasn’t something he wanted, but had no choice. My father was a wealthy man, and didn’t make my mother sign a pre-nuptial agreement, so he couldn’t leave her without risking half of everything. My mother isn’t the kind of person who would. She wasn’t with him for his money, but his pride told him otherwise.
His pride was also what led him to stray from my mother. The more money he earned, the more he thought of himself. The more he believed he deserved better. Younger. Hotter. He started with his secretaries, leading to later nights in the office, while my mother waited up for him. She never let his infidelity break her role as the happy mother. I wonder how hard it must have been to keep a smile on her face when she was breaking inside.