Calypso-15

5 - Mama

For many days, I was not called in. Papa drank to the point of incoherence regularly. I would send him to rehab again soon. He hated that. Under the oppressive regime, the continued allowance of alcohol to addicts baffled me. The influx of credits turned out to be a curse. Some time ago, I believed he would get better. I was no longer a good reason to stay alive, especially now that I could earn my own credits. His self-preservation died with Mama. 

There were cures to addiction, pills, chips you could implant. He wanted none of it. Papa lived life like a big fuck you to the man while Mama whispered softly to him every night, pulling him closer to death. He loved Mama more than me, a fact of our miserable existence together.

"I'm not going," he threw his jacket onto the ground. I looked up from my violin practice, this being the first time I saw him since the previous night. 

"Not going where?" I loosened the bow. 

"I can feel it. You're preparing to ship me off to that damned rehab center."

"Papa," I said softly. 

"Don't. Do this to me." He pointed a trembling finger, my tears unwelcome. I hated crying in front of him. He hated it.

"Don't do what? Care for you?" My voice raised to a shout, fearing the inevitable.

"You need to toughen," he took a great hiccup. "up. Too much like your mother. She knew what she did. I'm a fucking bastard, and she cursed you to be with me. I didn't fucking want you." 

Ugh. Not this again.

"Fuck you," I spat. "I get to watch you die of curable alcoholism."

He charged. Hitting me turned out to be a preferable outcome. He took the violin from my hands and chucked it at the wall. Mama's. Usually so serene, her face contorted in pain in my mind's eye. He breathed heavily, looking at the pieces on the floor. The sound of cracking wood felt like my own skull splitting open. I wished his kidneys would combust.

"Watch your damn mouth," he roared. "And don't fuckin' send me to rehab." 

"She would hate you." The truth ripped from me, pathetic compared to his crime.

"Good thing she's dead," the bedroom door slammed behind him.

Little wooden splinters covered the floor. My body collapsed against it. I would not send him to rehab, not anymore. He became a stranger to me, a goal he had been working towards my whole damn life. My eyes could barely ingest the world around me. He loved me only as an extension of her, an echo of her. Papa was my life, my everything. He drove away everyone else in the family. Living with him meant coming back when he pushed you away.

I picked up the broom and swept away the last pieces of that violin. We two, we fell through the cracks of the new regime. Everyone had carefully calculated social circles based on where they worked. Families were created by the government, but were also broken apart by it. A dystopia still finding itself. Many remembered before. And many, like me, already forgot. 

The tablet in the wall gave a weak buzz. Time to go back. The drive-capsule waited outside for me. For the first time, it was not empty. 

"Hello," the man, a boy really, waved. He had a mess of curls atop his head, dressed neatly in slacks and a sweater. He had dewy porcelain skin. I could smell his moisturizer, a jarring mixture of saffron and cedar wood. Expensive, meant to be understated, but hard to miss in close quarters. His brown eyes were dark, almost a perfect match for the mug of coffee he held. 

"That's daring," I commented, glad I left Mama's coat at home. Her things were not to be taken for granted anymore. In fact, they should be hidden away. No use in keeping her alive.