The door is left ajar leading into my apartment building, a mess from when my drunken dad got home from his party last night. Beer covers the ground like clothes in a depressive state, the clinking of the bottles with every step leaving a heavily disturbing sickness in my stomach. How can someone drink this much without consequence? Something I can't answer, even if I live with the man. My yawn fills the living room, hallway and everything else carrying every square inch of this bashful home.
Taking my time, I throw the bottles in a garbage bag after turning on the dim lights. From Corona to bud light, the different logos already printed in my mind like the lessons in school. Most people would wish they were there if they were in my place, I mean, at least that's what I've been told. But I don't find it too hard to take care of my father and his selfish ways.
With the bag now full, I rag up the spilt liquid, the fizz now gone. Just like him. I start by wiping with a dry rag to get it up, once done, I wipe the floor table and couch down with a wet rag to get the rest off. Then go over it with another dry towel. The light flickers as I finish. I would replace the lightbulb, but it's hard for me to reach.
What I can reach though, is the second drawer in the kitchen. I pull out a bag of balloons starting with a blue one. Then red, then yellow, all the way until I lost focus on the colors. The cigaret tar-tinted house now filled with dancing containers of air, I sneak a treat from the cabinet and only the do I sit at the table and eat.
Happy eighth birthday, to me.