Page 4 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Well, it was more of a shack really, with its sagging roof, but it kept the rain out.

Sometimes.

Somehow it looked even more run down than it did this morning when I left. The paint peeled in long, jagged strips, revealing the decaying wood beneath. The windows were smudged with grime.

I pushed open the creaking front door, its hinges groaning in protest. I winced, wishing there was a quieter way to get in the house. It was best for me to stay as unnoticed as possible.

One step inside, and the familiar stench of alcohol hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned the corner and screeched to a halt. Dad was slumped in the armchair, the one that was so faded, and worn, and dirty, you couldn’t tell what color it used to be.

He wasn’t snoring yet—which wasn’t good. He snored when he was in a really deep sleep. I had a test to study for tomorrow’s history class, and I didn’t want him waking up and messing that all up.

I watched him for a moment, making sure he wasn’t going to jump up when I passed. His skin was a ruddy red color beneath a tangled mass of unkempt, greasy hair. His clothes were stained and wrinkled from days spent in a drunken stupor.

Even in sleep, his face was contorted with anger and bitterness, the lines etched deeply into his brows like a roadmap of the demons that haunted him.

As I watched him, fear and loathing curled in my stomach.

There were bottles all over the floor glinting in the dim light. I winced when I saw them because they weren’t there this morning when I left, and that meant he’d spent money we didn’t have. I would have my free lunch at school tomorrow, but it would make it really hard for me to get through the day. I danced for so many hours that I burned a lot of calories. A slice of plasticky pizza and a carton of milk just didn’t do it.

I didn’t bother picking them up, I just focused on not tripping on them.

Sometimes I thought about what would happen if he just died. If one day he drank so much, he never woke.

And then I felt bad, because I knew that Mom leaving him really messed him up.

But he’d told me he would never leave me that day she’d disappeared.

He’d lied.

He’d left me every day. With every drop he drank. With every step he took from who he’d been to who he was now.

So it felt like it was okay that sometimes it was hard for me to keep my promises to him too.

My stomach grumbled as I reached the hallway, and I bit my lip as I stared into the kitchen.

Maybe...

I tiptoed into the room, noting the dirty dishes in the sink...and the pizza box.

Had he ordered us dinner for once?

I scrambled toward the box like someone possessed...I hadn’t had Papa Johns in forever.

Flipping open the lid, I could have cried.

It was all gone. Every last piece.

Forgetting I was supposed to be quiet, I threw open the fridge door, staring at the one expired bottle of mustard on the shelf, a strange numbness flooding my limbs.

I’d eaten nothing but school lunches and stale bread for weeks...and he’d ordered a pizza...and eaten the entire thing.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I let it drip to the ground.

My stomach grumbled again, and I rubbed at it, grabbing the cup I kept clean in the cabinet and filling it to the brim with water. If I drank enough water, sometimes my stomach wouldn’t hurt as bad.

I would just have to try and charm the lunch ladies out of some extra food tomorrow to help me get through the day.

Making it to my room without waking him, I collapsed on my bed, trying not to wince as a spring dug into my back. I stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains and the cracks that I’d memorized.

---