Page 1 of Caged Captain

1

IMOGINE

“Thirty-five, forty, fifty… crap,” I mutter to myself as I count out my tips from my shift at the diner today. Rent is due tomorrow, and we’re going to be short. Again.

The rent-by-the-week motel my father and I have been living in for the last year is all we can afford, though apparently, even this place is too rich for our blood. I’m doing all I can to make ends meet, but there are only so many hours in the day to work. I need to sleep at some point.

My dad is doing his best to contribute as well. He’s at least had a steady job in sales for a few months now, which helps. If only I could convince him to start going to his Gamblers Anonymous meetings again, then maybe we’d have more money at the end of each week. That’s an argument for another day, however. After twelve hours on my feet, I’m too exhausted to fight.

I stack the cash in a neat pile and then shove everything into an envelope labeledrent $$, setting it aside to look over the rest of the monthly bills. If we skip the phone bill this month, we’ll be able to pay rent, but then we risk getting our service cut off.It costs an extra fifty dollars to turn the phones back on, which might come back to bite us in the ass next month.

“Maybe if we do a partial payment on the car and skip insurance…” I shake my head as I trail off, hating that I have to play this balancing game with our money.

The door rattles as my father unlocks it and steps inside the small living room. His blue eyes sparkle as he smiles brightly at me, giving me a glimpse of the man he once was before my mother died and he turned to gambling.

We used to go on lots of adventures as a family, whether hiking, road-tripping, or visiting amusement parks. My dad made everything fun, even if we were simply wandering around an antique store on the side of the road. Everything changed when I was ten and my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. Twelve years later, life has only gotten worse.

“Hey, sunshine,” my father calls out as he toes off his shoes and sets down his satchel. His gaze wanders toward the table where I’m sitting, going through the bills. The twinkle in his eye disappears, taking his smile along with it. I watch as his entire countenance falls, shame washing over him and physically weighing him down.

“Hi, dad. How was work?” I ask, hoping my chipper tone lightens the mood. I hate seeing my father like this. I wish I could make it all better, go back in time, and somehow stop the cancer from taking my mother or stop my father from placing that first bet. Even if it was with the intent to pay for medical bills, no one knew it would unlock a life-long addiction to gambling.

“Ah, well, you know. Work is work,” he mumbles dismissively. He glances at me, then down at the envelope system I have in place to organize our bills. “You shouldn’t have to worry about all that.” He gestures vaguely to the table with a heavy sigh.

I never know what to say back to that. We go over this nearly every month. I wish I didn’t have to worry about all of this, either. But what other choice is there? I can’t abandon my only family.

Instead of saying anything, I shrug and shuffle the stack of papers and cash to the side, covering everything with my hands. Out of sight, out of mind, right? At least, that’s what I’ve heard. My anxiety says otherwise, but maybe that’s just me.

“I’ll get dinner on the table soon,” I tell my father after a few moments of tense silence. “Why don’t you go unwind for a bit? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Imogine,” he says, defeat laced in his voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know that, right?”

I nod, giving him my best smile as he heads to the bathroom to shower. Inside, my gut twists painfully as tears prick the back of my eyes. This is why I can’t leave. He needs me. He has no one else.

As soon as I hear the water running in the shower, I get to work on scrounging up something to eat. The small kitchenette has a hot plate, microwave, mini fridge, two cupboards, and a tiny sink. There’s hardly enough space to store groceries, let alone plates, utensils, and cookware.

I know the fridge is empty, so I don’t even bother looking inside. It would only make me more depressed. Opening one cupboard, I see a bag of microwavable rice and one can of black beans. Glancing at the counter, I smile when I see we still have a few tortillas left in the package. Rice and bean burritos it is.

Fifteen minutes later, I have everything ready to go. “Dad! Dinner is ready!”

He ambles out of the closet-turned-bedroom with fresh clothes and his hair combed back. We don’t have a lot of privacy in our motel, but my father insisted on giving me the main room with the fold-out couch to sleep in. He has a sleeping bag,blankets, and a pile of pillows arranged in the closet next to the bathroom.

“Rice and beans, plus warmed-up tor–”

A loud, incessant banging startles both of us, cutting me off mid-sentence. I look over at my father with confusion, which quickly turns to panic when I see the color drain from his face.

“I’m so sorry, Imogine,” he whispers, his upper lip trembling as he audibly swallows down terror.

“Who is it? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Go to the bathroom and lock the door,” he instructs, ignoring my question.

“Dad, who is at the door? What is going on?”

“It’s not for you to worry about.”

I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin up in defiance. Fear rolls right into anger at his words. “You’ve made everything else my problem. I think I deserve to know who is about to bust down our door.”

My father pierces me with a look that’s equal parts anguish and shame. At this moment, I regret snapping at him, even if he deserves it. I hate seeing him like this, a shell of the man he used to be.

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