Borgata - Book II #wattys2016

Chapter 14: Tied Up

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"Fico can come into my dressing room," my sister said, when asked what I should put at the beginning of this chapter. ( chrisrocks247 is her name and you should all follow her!)

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I was in my father's apartment sitting on the couch in front of the television. The carpet was stained and filthy the way I remembered it and paint was peeling off the walls. As I sat there, taking in the familiar ratty room, I wondered how I had even gotten there in the first place.

"God, you're pathetic, Sam."

I looked over at the shell of man situated next to me. His hair was greasy and his eyes were lost and deeply sunken in. His skin stretched across the bones of his face like a corpse and his lips were chapped.

"Dad?" When I focused on his face, it looked distorted for a moment, before shifting back to normal. "What's going on?" You're supposed to be dead.

"I knew you'd fück up like this," he said, and then took a long pull from his beer. "You could have done something with your life, kid. Instead, you got yourself mixed up with the Italians like I did. You took the whøre route..." His words echoed inside of my mind, transforming into another voice, and my hands rolled into tight fists. "Whøre route. First you fück that.... fffffaggøt boyfriend of yours, and now you got some mobster's cøck up your ass­? What a great taste in men you have. For Christ's sake, just close your god damn legs–"

"Shütup–!"

"And the worst part is, you didn't even get any money outta of the mob boss." He snickered. "God...you're pathetic. It's a fücking mob boss. He's a trillionaire, baby. Steal from that shît. Have I taught you...anything? You should have at least gotten some cash outta him, broken into a safe or hotwired one of his fancy cars like I used to teach you. You could have bought a nicer apartment with that money. You could have stopped that Orlando prîck from taking a big chunk out of your income–"

"Orlando took me in when I couldn't get a job," I snarled. "He takes care of me. He gives me enough money to get by because I told him that's what I want. That's all I need. I like where I am... I like where I am..." I shut my eyes, squeezing the sides of my head. "It's not about the money, it's about the distraction. It's about moving on from you–!"

"It's about you being a whøre to get what you want," Dad said. "Power. You like having power over men with your body. That's called being a whøre, sweetheart. Just like your mother was a whøre to get her fix–"

"Don't talk about her like that!" I squeezed the sides of my head tighter. "She was sick! She got addicted, and you did nothing to help her get better! You were too busy gambling and drinking! I was just a little girl and I helped her more than you did, you drunk bastard!"

"Whatever," he grumbled and turned the television on. He switched to his favorite sports channel and dug his hand into the bag of chips next to him, shoving a handful of them into his mouth. His eyes shifted somewhere else and he polished off his beer, setting it down next to the other empty ones on the coffee table. "You won't have anyone left to blame when you realize that you're no better than I am. You're just as diseased as I am, Sammy."