Help Me Feel

Help Me Feel - My Father

A/N: I know these last couple of chapters have been really short, but this IS supposed to be a short story. Next chapter will be up soon!

Chapter 5 – My Father.

I was lucky. Brandon's parents and sister were now back for good. They'd moved back over the weekend, so I didn't have to hang out with him tonight.

However, I did have to go over tomorrow. The weekend was apparently going to be consisting of me meeting his family.

I wished I could get out of it, having the same foreboding feeling I'd had about lunch for this, but it seemed they'd insisted on meeting me. I couldn't figure out why, but that wasn't something I needed to know. I just had to show up and fake a small smile like I was fine, just like I did everyday.

I caught the bus home, but when I reached my house, I froze. There was a car in the driveway; my dad was home.

I sighed, knowing I had to go in there at some point, but not wanting to deal with him. I hadn't really seen him in a few months. It had probably been before Christmas that I'd last seen his face.

I walked into the house slowly, decided against saying anything. That would attract his attention, and that usually led to a pretty bad day for me.

“Jane!” His voice stopped me from heading straight to my room, and I found myself changing direction to go to him, even though he'd yelled my mother's name. It was like I had no control over myself, and I leant against the doorway to the living room.

“Hi,” I said before thinking. My dad looked over at me, and I hated how bloodshot and unfocused his eyes were, as though he was looking at me but not really seeing me. I frowned, the usual symptoms of his alcoholism appearing a little different. “Did you get high?” I asked.

“I just had a couple of drinks,” he slurred, trying to stand up from the sofa, only to fall onto his knees. If this was how he was more often than not, and it seemed this was normal, I didn't know how he kept a job.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to be angry with him. I wanted to yell at him for doing this to himself all the time, doing it to me, but I couldn't. We both dealt with my mother's suicide in different ways, and this was my father's way; he drank until he couldn't feel and stayed busy away from anything that could make him think of her, and I drew blood.

I couldn't, shouldn't, judge. So I sighed, walking over to my unstable father and pulled him up, resting his arm over my shoulders to give me the ability to help him reach his bedroom.

“Jane, I'm sorry!” He suddenly yelled, trying to fall to his knees again. I kept him upright by sheer force, biting my lip against the pain he was placing on my shoulders. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to not be there,” he cried, looking up at me with tears in his eyes.

I tried to ignore him, I really did, but my eyes met his for what was supposed to be a quick second. Only, we stayed locked, looking into each others eyes. We were outside of his room now. All I had to do was get him inside and shut the door behind me, but I was trapped in the tortured gaze of my father.

His hand stroked my cheek. “Just like your mother,” he whispered, his voice carrying further than it should have, echoing inside my head. Just another memory I'd wish I could forget, even if it was only a moment.

In that second, my eyes filled with tears for the first time in years.

Without another word, I opened his door and dragged his now unconscious self onto the single bed that was neatly made from when he'd last left. As soon as I made sure he was completely secure and unlikely to fall off, I walked out without looking back. I'd heard that one sentence twice today, and I couldn't take it. I wasn't like my mother. Maybe I did cut, but at least I was usually pretty careful. I wasn't suicidal, I just didn't know what else to do and it helped.

I hadn't cried since I was twelve, but right then the tears clouded my vision. I needed release. I needed to let go.

I reached my bathroom, my bag with the knife inside still around my shoulders, and acted so fast I barely even knew what I was doing.

The next thing I was fully aware of was the slice of pain on my stomach. I looked down to see the knife in my hand, my shirt torn, and a thin, dark line leaving trickles of blood down my body, making the remains of my shirt stick to my skin.

I ripped the bottom half off quickly, needing to keep my stomach open to the air.

Okay, this was good. Blood always calmed me down, and this was a lot. Almost enough to make up for the fact that my father didn't even know me. Not really. He hadn't even said hello, or my name.

I hadn't thought the cut was that deep, but when the edges of my vision grew hazy, I grabbed some bandages from under the sink and tried to stop the bleeding quickly. The cut was pretty deep, but it seemed I'd managed to keep it shallow enough to avoid any organs, arteries, or veins.

Good.

I wrapped the bandage around my stomach, keeping it as tight as I possibly could. If this was still bleeding tomorrow, Brandon would know...

That thought alone was enough to make me add another couple of layers.

I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my father noticing; he'd be gone by tomorrow night anyway.

I made my way to the kitchen to grab a snack and some orange juice. I was tired out, and I knew I needed some sugar or something in my system to help with the blood loss. I also needed to figure out if I'd managed to give myself any limitations for tomorrow. I wouldn't be playing any contact games, that was for sure.

Tomorrow...

I sighed, taking a bite of the cereal bar. How was that even going to work? I couldn't drive there because I didn't have a car, or even a license, but at the same time, Brandon didn't have a number to call me on.

Maybe I'd be able to get out of going now.

I finished the bar and drink, washing the glass out before setting it on the counter to dry. I had some homework I needed to do before I slept for the night.

This was my life. A constant variation of school, homework, blood, and occasionally a special appearance from my father, just to keep my life worth living.