Little Wolves (gxg)

Chapter 17 - History Repeats Itself

Every time I sit on the porch there's this little iridescent green fly that comes to rest on the pillows beside me. I call him my little fly guy. He sits while I sit and we keep each other company. Well, as much company as a fly can give, that is.

He was perched on one of the white pillars of my porch as I came home. I said hello to him in my head as I made my way inside.

My house was deathly silent. I wasn't sure if my parents were still asleep or if they had already gone out about their day. It was well past ten in the morning, so I wouldn't be surprised if I was home alone.

As I was kicking my shoes off, though, I heard wood creaking from the kitchen and peered down the hallway to see the whisks of my mother's silk bathrobe.

"Mom?" I called, holding onto the stairway railing to slip my last shoe off. When I didn't get a reply, I walked down the hallway, knowing she had to have heard me.

When I rounded the corner, it wasn't a pretty sight. Mom was crying at the kitchen table.

"Mom, what's wrong?" I asked, rushing over to hold her hand. Her eyes were beading red. I rubbed my thumb over the back of her hand.

"Your father didn't come home last night," she said. I scowled.

"What do you mean? Did something happen?" I asked. Mom sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and looked out the back window.

"I don't know. He came home this morning like he used to. He's drunk."

"What?!" I seethed. My eyebrow started twitching.

My mom didn't answer me. Instead, she pulled her hand away from mine. It was shaking. She reached into her yellow silk robe and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a long drag. As the substance abuse settled her nerves, she closed her eyes and relished in the nicotine rush. I clenched my jaw.

"Where is he?" I asked. My hands were balled into fists with knuckles as white as snow. Mom shrugged and shook her head at the same time. That one gesture said it all. I saw the disappointment seeping through every fiber of her being. There was no anger. Just complete and utter disappointment after my father broke the last thread of trust she had given him.

Then there were footsteps.

Heavy and sloppy, coming down the stairs. Those of a deeply sad man who drowned himself in the liquor that claimed his soul. I felt my lip twitch as I turned my head towards the hallway, waiting for him to walk into the kitchen. My eyes felt hot. They were burning with rage and betrayal.

I trusted him. I trusted his words of bettering himself. I listened to them like snake venom even though I knew they sounded too good to be true. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him so badly I actually convinced myself to trust him. I really believed he was going to be better.

I could smell him before I could even see him. The musk. The booze. Just like when I was a child, sitting on the porch swing watching the storms go by.

His eyes settled on mine and I saw anger. They were wide open like a crazy man, staring at me like I was the devil.

"You." He pointed at me. His voice was dark and raspy, like he had smoked a whole pack of cigarettes before morning.

"How could you?" I asked. I sat up at the kitchen table, watching my mom suck on that cigarette like it was oxygen out the corner of my eye. Dad stumbled towards me, leaning on the kitchen counter because he couldn't hold himself steady enough.

"You... you stay away from those people, you hear me?" His finger jabbed the air like a wet pool noodle. My lip showed my distaste for his state of being loud and clear.