I decided to write a story based on a song this time. I just flipped to a random song in my iTunes library, and started writing about how it inspired me. NOTE: None of this is at all based on anything in my life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspired by: "Breakdown" by the Plain White T's
I sunk lower into my bed as I heard the creak of the front door opening. Mom was home again, presumably drunk as usual. Like any other night, I covered my head with my pillow, attempting to drown out the shouts that I knew were soon to follow.
"Phil! Dammit, Phil, come downstairs!"
My suspicions were confirmed when I heard Mom's drunken voice screech Dad's name. Her words were slurred, even more so than usual, and I wondered how much she'd had to drink this time. It was late, after two in the morning. After countless nights of arguing with my dad, she had agreed to be home by one from now on, and to arrive at least partially sober. These arguments were obviously not meant for my ears, but it was pretty hard to miss all the vociferation. They knew I was there, but they simply didn't care. My mom was a lot of things, but punctual and truthful did not fall under that category.
"Marie, come to bed," Dad called down. His voice was strained, and he was obviously exhausted. On any other night, he would have begun an argument, but I guess he was tired of all the endless arguing. The fight in him was gone, and I hated my mom even more for breaking Dad's spirit.
Mom's heavy footsteps grew louder as she ascended the stairs. I could hear her girlish giggle as she walked past my room. Honestly, she believed she was still a teenager and not a 40- something year old woman. Her hair was bleach blonde, and she had gotten more plastic surgery procedures than I could count on my fingers. I didn't understand why Dad put up with her for so long.
I put my ear up to the wall, eavesdropping on their conversation out of pure curiosity.
"Where have you been?" I heard Dad ask in a weary voice, like a father talking to his teenage daughter.
"I been nowhere, why?" Mom's voice was slurred and high pitched, barely legible.
"You've obviously been somewhere," Dad responded, exasperated.
"No, why you think that?" she responded with simplistic language and improper grammar like a child. "I been nowhere, I swear!" She cried out.
"Then why," I heard Dad raise his voice in anger, and I could still tell he was holding back, "do you have a tattoo of the name 'David' on your forearm? Dammit Marie, it's red! It's from tonight!"
"David what? David who? I don't know no David, silly!" she giggled again. "Who's David?"
"That's what I'd like to know!" Dad was yelling now. "Who's David, and why in Hell is his name plastered on your forearm?!"
"David, relax," Mom whispered seductively.
"I don't know who this David is," Dad seethed, "but I am Phil, your husband, remember?"
"Oh, Phil?" Mom giggled again. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
"Marie, where have you been and who have you been with?" I could hear the hurt in Dad's voice. "Stop being evasive."
"I been at the bar, I told you! I been alone, jus' alone!" Mom screeched, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a crash. She had probably broken another antique vase…
