Expecting Freshman (Editing)

Prolouge

  "Happy birthday to me," I whispered quietly, getting up too early in the morning. It was June 5th, my 15th birthday, and it also happened to be the summer before my freshman year. I was excited. . . but at the same time, I couldn't care less. I got up slowly, adjusting my sleep shorts, and ignoring mirrors; they depressed me, I looked too much like my mother. I looked out the window into the blinding sun, flinching away and deciding I had to go to the restroom. On my way, I gave into my curiosity and glanced in the mirror. My makeup was pretty much gone but not smeared, my dark eyes were tired looking but not disgusting, and my long dark hair was perfectly curly still; it was naturally like that.

  I decided not use to use the bathroom as looking in the mirror had just bothered me too much. My mood was now shot for today, as it was often when I decided to glance at my appearance. . . but it's not like today more than just any other day anyway, for the simple fact that my father was a drunk. A hardcore alcoholic. He wasn't always that way though, before my mother died he would only drink a couple beers here and there on rare occasions. Alas, things have been drastically different for the both of us ever since my mother passed away two long years ago. Her death had taken a detrimental toll on us both. When I was only 11 years old, my mother discovered that she had a tumor on her brain. When we learned it was in fact cancerous a month later, she began treatment. However, just two years into her battle, you could see the fight began to go from her eyes. You could sense her lack of hope had slowly diminished, and we knew she wouldn't last much longer. Quickly thereafter, the battle became too big for her to conquer and eventually she lost all the fight and life she had left, dying peacefully in her room when I was only 13 years old.

And from that very day forth, my life has been a living hell.

  Before her death, we had been living in a large two story home, with a big backyard and expensive things; now we lived in a compact mobile home in the middle of some field. Don't get me wrong, mobile homes can be beautiful houses, but the one we resided in was so unkempt and ignored. The roof could cave in any moment and the mold could make you sick, and that doesn't even include the aroma of beer and alcohol. I shivered, my thoughts making me uncomfortable yet again.

  When I had made it into the small living room, I sighed excessively. There my dad lay, passed out on the dingy couch once again, mouth agape and a light snore filling the empty space of the room. I couldn't even remember the last time he was sober. Shaking my head, I left that room to go change into my clothes for the day. I went with some dark skinny jeans, vivid lime green cheetah socks, and a grey Pink Floyd t-shirt that I loved. . . it had been my mom's. I went to the bathroom, putting my hair in a tight ponytail and ignoring my makeup. I then slowly went too the living room again, hearing and seeing that my dad looked no different. Despite the fact that I had every right to, I didn't hate my father, no. I felt more sorry for him than anything else. That said, I reached my hand towards the back of the couch to grab the orange throw blanket that lay over the back of the couch. But as I did so, he grabbed my arm with his hand so quick it scared me to death. I jumped and screamed for a second, then I relaxed my heart still beating fast. "Dad, you scared me!" I said, breathlessly.

  "It..s...yo...your bir..f..dey," he stumbled over his words, trying to talk normally. His grip got tighter.

  I nodded, "yes Dad, it's my birthday; now please let me go."

  He gripped my arm even tighter, pulling me on the couch with him. "I don't herv yer present," his speech was more clear now and his breath smelling strongly of Gin.

  I wanted to throw up that smell was so repulsive, "I don't care that you don't have my present, you know gifts have never mattered to me. Now let me go."

  "I owe you," he said, still cloudy but his speech was normal now. Not slurred.

  "No Dad, you don't owe me anything," then, an idea hit me, "actually, you could stop drinking. That'd be a great birthday present." It was worth a shot at the very least.

  He pulled me closer, almost on his lap; his eyes held a glimmer of something I couldn't quite put my finger on. He whispered my nickname in my ear, that sounded like my mom's name, and then I heard him say, "I'll stop if you sleep with me." I jumped out of his lap in that moment,  afraid that I knew exactly what my dad was going to do. I started to run to the front door, but I was too small, I wasn't fast enough, and his big man body tackled me too the ground.

  "Get off me!" I yelled at my dad, struggling.

  "Happy birthday Abigail," his words echoed in my head as tears streamed down my young face.