Page 22 of On the Line

I hold back the urge to punch the dumpster, reminding myself that I need my hands to work. Crushing the butt of my cigarette under my heel, I tell Sophia I’ll be right there. I text Alec from the parking lot, asking him to cover for me before I jump into my car and get the hell out of there.

The next morning,I wake up on my dad’s couch with a crick in my neck and a sore back. That couch was old and busted even when I was a kid, and it’s not much better now. Can’t be surprised it was never replaced, since my dad prefers to spend the family’s money on himself.

I’m busy making breakfast burritos with whatever I was able to scrounge up in the fridge—making a mental note to buy groceries before I leave—when Charlie bounds into the kitchen.

His brown curls are sticking up in wild angles from sleep, wearing his faithful but too-small Spider-Man PJs. He’s a carbon copy of me when I was young, except he has a splatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

“Ozzy!” he squeals, running into me, his face squishing into my ribs while he hugs me tightly. He was already sleeping when I arrived last night and I didn’t want to wake him.

“Hey buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair before he lets me go. “Staying out of trouble?”

He lets out an amused laugh, sitting up on the counter next to the dirty sink. “If you don’t count when the cops drove me home last week,” he says with no remorse.

I give him a pointed look, flipping one of the burritos over in the pan. “What did you do this time?”

“Set a garbage can on fire,” he deadpans.

“For fuck sake, Charlie.” His laugh is infectious and I can’t help but smile, turning my back to him so as to hide it. “What did I tell you about that shit?”

“He’s going to burn this shithole to the ground one day,” Sophia mutters while walking to the kitchen table, rubbing her eye. Sophia takes after our mother, dirty blonde hair and green eyes.

“Breakfast’s ready,” I tell them.

Charlie jumps down from the counter, following behind as I carry their plates to the table. Sophia pushes a pile of letters and loose flyers to the side before grabbing her burrito.

“Thanks, Ozzy.” She smiles, taking a large bite. She surveys the table and with a mouthful of food she looks up to where I’m standing and asks, “Where’s yours?”

“Not hungry,” I reply before turning around to clean up the kitchen. There wasn’t enough food for three, but I don’t bother telling them that.

“I got hold of Hux, by the way,” I say from over my shoulder. “He’ll be here later this morning.”

Sophia hums in acknowledgment while she continues to eat. I omit the part where I had to bribe him a hundred bucks for it. A part of me understands his complete disinterest in being home. I was even younger when I left.

Butfuck, I can’t always be around.

Pushing myself up on the kitchen counter, I idly sit and watch the kids eat. If I didn’t notice everything wrong with this house, from the cracks in the leaky ceiling to the dirty walls, the image of them eating breakfast at the kitchen table could almost be wholesome. I wonder if their easy smiles and laughs have anything to do with me being here this morning, which only exacerbates the guilt of leaving them here alone with my dad.

I try to remind myself that I’m doing my best.

Even though mybestis not nearly good enough.

Swinging the door open,I march into O’Toole’s, one of the many places I know to look for my father when he’s disappeared for this long. It’s only a few blocks from the house and known to be open before noon. This shithole is dark and dank, but I spot a lone figure sitting at the end of the empty bar.

I see fucking red.

Most likely already wasted, he doesn’t notice me when I stomp up to him. I grab my father by the collar of his shirt and pull him out of his seat.

“Woah! Hey, get off me!” he slurs, trying to tear himself out of my grasp but goes limp when he realizes who’s slamming him against the wall. “Ozzy,” he mutters.

“Miss me?” I spit between my clenched teeth. I tighten my grip and give him another hard shove. “I sure hope it’s notmyfucking money you’re drinking away this time.”

“It’s not like that,” he says uselessly, his breath reeking of stale beer.

I’m so disgusted that I let him go and take a step back.He stumbles, barely regaining his footing, grabbing onto the back of a chair.

I stare at him, wanting nothing more than to beat the living sense into him. But I know it’s useless. There’s barely anyone there. He looks so old … his body frail, thinning white hair, and eyes that look more bloodshot than green. He’s swimming in his stained jeans as if all these years of abusing his body with alcohol have finally caught up with him.

Stepping away, I point a finger in his face. “If you’re not back home by tonight, I’m cutting you off. You hear me?”

---