Angela

Angela- chapter two

I wake up, it takes me a second to realise where I am, to drag myself out of that terrible blackout. I must've passed out in the middle of the service and hit my head on the pew in front of me because there appears to be a tiny man with a chainsaw slicing through my head. I wince at the pain, then climb onto my wobbly feet, using the pew for support. It is late afternoon, the sky has turned into a murky navy blue. I need to get home, my dad will probably have a horrible hangover, he'll be mad when I come home, but then he usually is. I'm never drinking alcohol when I grow older, it turns even the most respectful people into monsters.

I'm all alone in the old church, I imagine the dead clambering out of their tombs, their skin rotten and their eyes hungry for revenge for being trapped underground for so long. Their mouths gaping open, ready to kill me with one fatal bite. The fireworks start to pound inside my head and lights flash behind my eyes again, the room starts spinning. Before I can sit down I vomit all over the stone floor, once I start I can't stop, I heave and heave as I sick up the contents of my stomach, tears streaming down my cheeks until I have nothing left to sick up. I was stupid to get so worked up, zombies aren't real, and mum's dead and gone, why can't I just get over it? She's not coming back, I'll just have to get used to being forgotten, I can't be the only one in the world who is. I'm all alone, but I shouldn't be- where's the Vicar? Did he just leave when the service was done, just left me lying there unconscious. Then the truth comes flooding back, he doesn't care either, and why should he? Nobody does. Except mum, oh mum, oh mum, I wish you would come back for me.

When I uncurl out of my ball it is almost midnight.

Nothing's changed at home, dad's still snoring in his pool of alcohol, I wrinkle my nose at the stench, his vomit mingled with the alcohol fumes makes an eye watering combination. He hasn't even noticed I left, my own father is a drunkard who cares about nothing but drugging himself in a haze of alcohol and depression over mum's death that he doesn't notice me anymore. I slope upstairs to my room, avoiding puddles of vomit when I see my dad's knocked down my bedroom door, too. I should feel angry but all I feel is a sob welling up inside me, he's getting worse, whispers a voice inside my head, he's getting worse- how much longer will it take for him to die.

I don't need him anymore, I have Hazell my younger sister, but if he dies. Then we'll just be separated and put in foster homes. She's the only one I really need. But then, I need my father too just to keep her. The terrible chainsaw\headache is drilling at my skull again. My bed awaits, I strip off my embarrassingly baggy school uniform and clamber into it. After an exhausting day like mine most ordinary people would just fall into a deep sleep, but not me. I hear a horrible dying animal moan from downstairs and try to block out the sound of human misery echoing around me. My tinny alarm clock reads: Two thirty in the morning. I'll only have about four hours sleep if I can actually sleep, but none comes.
Finally, I climb out of bed and tiptoe along the landing to Hazell's room.

There are yet more forms of human misery staining the landing, the smell is disgusting but the faint alcohol fumes rise up and out of the house through a gaping hole in the roof that dad's never been sober enough to fix. Hazell's shivering in the cold wind blowing into her room through the hole in the roof.
I took on look at her then and knew I hated my dad.