Surviving The Walking Dead (BOOK ONE IN THE SURVIVING THE WALKING DEAD SERIES)

Bite The Bullet

August 1998

     As the years progressed my dad's alcoholism grew like a cancerous tumor and I grew older and more tolerable to his drunken ways. My dad completely stopped working, said he'd rather live off the government and drink the day away than to be a puppet in the economy. I prepared our dinner in the kitchen as he sat on the couch in his boxers passed out. Beer cans littered the floor and our property, but I often collected them and took them to the recycling center for some cash. It was a long walk to the recycling center, but it allowed me to think in silence.

     Not once did I ever think that I'd work as much as a housewife as a fourteen year old. I cooked, I cleaned, I did it all. I even had to go fishing and hunting on my own once the food started running low, but now I rarely have to since I've started turning his cans in for cash. I taught myself everything I needed to know about hunting, though when I brought home my first kill my dad acted less than excited.

     I remembered the day I had to start doing things on my own. I was nine. The food ran low not long after they were donated. I wanted to go and get more groceries, but my dad spent only a little bit on food, the rest went towards his beer. My dad never said a word to me when I did the housework, he just ate when there was food, drank non-stop, and once in awhile he'd get up to take a piss or shit.

     "Today's gonna be different." I said to myself as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Today was my birthday. When my mom was alive birthdays used to be a big deal for everyone, but since she died my dad hasn't seemed to notice. I refused to let him forget my birthday this year, I was determined to get my dad off his ass and try to have some fun for my birthday.

     I ran down the stairs hoping and praying that I would be greeted by my dad or that he would at least acknowledge my birthday, but as I entered the living room I saw my dad slumped over on the couch eating some leftover fish, drinking beer, and watching an episode of Beverly Hills 90210.

     "Good mornin' dad." I smiled at him, but like my prayers, my words fell on deaf ears. "Do ya know what day it is?" Again he ignored me and continued to eat. "Dad?" I stood in front of the TV to get his attention. My dad sighed in agitation.

     "What?" I looked at me with his glazed eyes as if looking through me.

     "It's my birthday today." I smiled, but he didn't find anything amusing.

     "Well, con-fuck-ulations. What, do you want a fuckin' medal for knowin' how to read a calendar?"

     "It's just-" He interrupted me with anger.

     "What? Were you expecting a fuckin' present? Some sort of surprize? Look around, Michaela! Do ya honestly think I can afford a fuckin' present?"

     "It's just, birthdays were always a big deal when mom was alive." Saying that was the biggest mistake I've ever made.

     "What did ya just say to me?" He slammed his can of beer to the floor and stood up. "Are ya tryin' to say this is my fuckin' fault? It's my fault that she's dead?"

     "No, I-" He swung the back of his hand at me, striking my face. My cheek burned as I lost my balance and fell to the floor. I rubbed my throbbing cheek for a moment debating on whether or not I should get up. I knew he would never change, he would alway be a drunk for the rest of his life, but this? This was a whole new low, even for my dad. My dad has never hit me a day in his life. He'd gone too far.

     "Ya know what?" I staggered to my feet.

     "Don't get fuckin' smar-" He began, but I refused to let him finish.