I start hyperventilating and no amount of breathing exercises that Heath used to do with me helps.
The door knob turns and Dad steps in looking and smelling drunk. In one hand, he’s holding a Scotch bottle and in the other he has a cigarette.
His eyes lock on me and I quickly jump to my feet.
I’m tall but he makes me feel like the smallest woman in the world.
“You’re alone,” he says, as he walks into my room. I move back but my legs hit the mattress. There’s no escaping. I’m trapped.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Because your boy is spending the night in the cell.”
I let
“I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t. He’s there because of you,” he reminds me.
He’s there because of you.Those are the only words I hear.
I clasp my hands together and fidget with my fingers as the ball of anxiety starts rolling around in my stomach.
“It’s all your fault. You’re the reason why bad things happen to people.”
I stay quiet, listening to him intently.
Dad walks to the book wall and stares at it. He takes a long swig from the bottle and then takes a puff from the cigarette. “First you ruined my marriage and now there’s a boy suffering because of you.” He faces me. His dark eyes bore into mine and all I see is darkness. “Hope, you’re nothing but a bad omen.”
Bad omen.
I cause people problems.
They get hurt because of me.
I’m a problem.
My chest aches as those words fill the spaces inside of me.
I find all the pieces of the puzzle that I’ve been trying to put together for years.
The reason why my parents fought.
The reason why I didn’t have friends.
The reason why I’ve always been empty and lonely.
It’s because I’m the problem.
Dad watches me closely, as he drinks the last bit of the bottle and then tosses it away. It clinks on the floor then rolls away into a corner, stinking my room in its pungent smell.
“I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t listen to me,” he says in a low, quiet voice.
It’s past midnight and the world is sleeping at this hour. There’s silence and peace circling in the air that it almost feels eerie.
“A boy was in your bedroom when you know you are not allowed to have boys in the house, let alone in your bedroom,” he finishes and clicks his teeth in disappointment. Averting his gaze from me, he looks down at the stack of books—my book wall—and says, “You made a grave mistake, Hope. And mistakes have punishments.”
Bending down, he picks up a book that I’ve read more than twenty times because it’s one of my favorites. I consider it my comfort-read; the book I read when I’m feeling down and just want to feel something.
I stiffen as he flips through the pages, his eyes taking in the words and my notes.
My thoughts are written on those pages. Anyone who’ll read them will know me from the inside out.
