melancholia ✔︎

breakfast

Dad seems to get more violent every day.

And when he's sober, he's a mess. A freaking mess.

I make him breakfast and forbid him from leaving the house the next morning.

"Hi Dad," I say, giving him his breakfast in bed.

"What you doing here kid?" he asks.

"Breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"You must be. I'll leave it here."

"Fine."

He holds a hand to his head.

"I have a fudging shitty headache, Amy. Get me some panadol, or something, will ya?"

"Okay," I say. If I don't, I know there will be consequences.

Not that I care.

"Here."

He rips the packet open and gulps two down before throwing the packet on the floor.

"Get me some vodka," he orders.

"No, dad," I reply firmly and calmly, trying to help someone stop a habit when I can't even stop myself.

He sits up.

"Get me some now!" he shouts. "Or whiskey. Whatever shit there is in that fudging cupboard!"

I stand firm and refuse his orders.

"No, dad. No, no alcohol until lunch." Bit by bit I can do this. I can do this.

I can do this.

"Screw you Amy! If you don't get it, I'll fudging get it my fudging self!" he yells getting out of bed, tossing his breakfast on the door.

I block the doorway, trying to stop him, knowing it'll never work. He pushes me out of the way and barges down the door, stomping downstairs.

I pick myself off the floor wishing I didn't fall on my shoulder.

That didn't work. Again.

I'll stop trying to help other people when I can't even help myself.