MARTES
9:33 PM
Dahlia Gray
I'm doing homework at my desk and I normally use my lamp that runs on LED lights. I didn't touch anything—other than three taps to turn it on—and as I was scribbling the answers to one of the math problems, the lights went off.
There was no storm. There was no power shortage.
The lights just went off.
Estupendo.
At first, I thought the light bulb had died or something and I just needed to change it—but I remember, I just changed it two weeks ago with a brand new bulb. If one was a defect, the other one would've still been shining.
But it wasn't.
Then, as I was searching for the source of my problems—turning the lamp upside down, searching through the power sockets—I realized that my house phone wasn't charging either. The phone itself was fine, and it was positioned on the charger but it just wasn't charging.
That's when I knew it wasn't me.
I went to the outlet and found that both my lamp and my house phone were plugged on the same outlet. I pull out their power box and drop it on the floor beside me, cautiously examining the source of the problem.
My outlet has a power adapter that allows for more outlets. Instead of being a simple two, it had a total of six and two additional plugins at the top. My father installed it when I was fourteen.
And it was loose.
I never liked the look of it and I didn't need six outlets in the first place, so I tried to rip it off. To see the internal problem and possibly fix the issue myself.
But it wouldn't come out.
It clings to the wall like hot glue and with each pull I made, I could feel it ripping the wall plate behind it. I could also see the wires and the hollows of the wall coming through, the core outlet bared down to scrap metal. But no progression. I know I'm messing up.
Then, I heard a snap and it still didn't come out.
I gave up after that.
Now, sitting on the floor with defeat, and looking at the outlet, it looks quite noticeable and loosen beyond repair. Not only will it bother me in the future, but the initial problem of mine is still not solved.
My mother knows nothing about electricity and mechanics.
My father, on the other hand, knows a little more.
I'm sitting on the floor, staring at the jacked-up outlet, debating my next plan of action. I can't exactly continue working without a functioning power source and I haven't used the light in my room for ages. It's been collecting dust and I've been dependent on this lamp since I was eleven.
I really don't want to ask him.
But I have to.
I suck up my pride and rise from my spot, turning on my heel as I exit out into the hallway and descend down the stairs. I went to the living room—the second most common place my father could be found in, besides the guest bedroom—and saw that he wasn't there. The TV was on, playing some sports commentator channel, but he wasn't there.
So, I went to his third favorite place: the front porch. The light was turned on and I saw a shadow of a body moving in front of the window. I open the door and it was unlocked, and the moment I stepped out, I could smell the heavy scent of nicotine.
I cough into my arm.
"—I don't need that bullshit," I hear my father swear, one hand clutching onto his phone while the other has a cigarette between his fingers. He raised it to his lips, taking a drag before releasing a long, drawn-out sigh. "I don't fucking care."
I can see that he's upset, and his body language radiates frustration rolling off of him like sweat. His fingers clutch around the phone so tightly, his knuckles grew white and his lips were pulled to a permanent scowl.
I wanted to take a step forward, but the heavy scent of cigarettes stops me from proceeding.
"You don't know shit!" My father jumps from his seat, dangling the cigarette between his fingers and dropping his hand by his side. The smoke dissipates into my direction and I feel like I couldn't breathe.
"Dad," I choke, bringing the collar of my shirt to my nose, covering the smell as much as possible. He doesn't look my way. "Dad."
My father turns to face me, his eyes burning a glare that could kill an army of men. It made me shiver, and almost regret talking. He clenches his teeth, his jaw growing prominent, and he brings the cigarette back to his lips. Exhale.
"I have to go," he mutters into the phone, ending the call before the other person had a chance to mumble another word. He slips his phone into his pocket and turns back to me, with the same glaring eyes. "What?"
I gulp. I should've picked another time. I should come back when he wasn't upset or angry, or on the brink of releasing all of his stress onto me. I could see him seconds from snapping, but I needed my lamp. I need to finish my homework and I need him to fix it.
"I, um," I begin, stammering on my words. "I, um, I kinda need you to go upstairs in my room. I need help with something."
He furrows his brows, "with what?"
"I just need you to come upstairs," I beg, wanting to get this over with. I fear that the moment he learns the issue, he wouldn't want to take a step in. I'm his daughter. I'm really hoping that's enough to convince him to trust me. "Please?"
He heaves a sigh, like this was an inconvenience, before he nods. He takes one last drag before dropping it to the floor, crushing the bare butt with his heel. "Go."
I think that meant he wanted me to lead the way, and I was too afraid to ask for clarification, so I just went. I head back inside and inhale a breath of fresh air. I rush up the stairs, hearing my father's gruff footsteps following closely behind, and I reach my bedroom in seconds. I step back as I wait for him to enter.
He looks around the room for the issue, his brows pulled together as he tries to pinpoint my problem. His eyes examine my room from ceiling to floor, and I hold my breath. I hope he spots the issue that's practically shining through the room—or technically, lack thereof.
"I don't understand," my father gruffs, turning back to face me. His features grow more irritated. "What's the problem?"
I suck in a deep breath, "this," I point to the outlet, showing how loose and fragile it appears right now—one pull away from shattering the whole circuit. His eyes widen.
"Dahlia!" He scolds, rushing over to the plug and crouching down as he begins to pick at the adapter with intense focus. His voice low, and filled with aggravation. "What the fuck did you do?"
My heart begins to race in my chest, "my lamp and home phone stopped working," I whisper softly, trying to regulate my breathing. The stench of his cigarette smokes still lingers on his body like a second odor, and it was suffocating me within my own headspace. "I thought it was the outlet and I wanted to fix it. I thought I could pull it out."
"You can't!" He snaps, causing me to take a step back. My heart hammering my chest.
He tries to push the adapter back onto the wall, as if it would stick like magnet strips, but it didn't work—I already tried that. "I screwed it in. You can't just pull it out like that, you'll break it!"
Oh.
"I..." I trail off, clenching my hands into fists before releasing them. I could no longer meet his gaze, feeling like a bother in his life. "I didn't know that."
"That's why you don't pull them out!" He shouts, jumping up to his feet. He points at the lamp, "did you mess that up too?"
"What? No," I shake my head, trying my best to remain submissive and sedate him from growing more upset. My chest is hurting. It feels like I'm taking air I'm not supposed to have. "It just somehow stopped working. I think the outlet—"
"You're fucking ruining the house," he growls, cutting me off before I got the chance to explain. He runs a hand through his blond hair, his eyes fixated on the outlet before sparing another glance at the lamp. "You're destroying everything you fucking touch, aren't you?"
I don't say anything in return, inhaling a sharp breath before releasing it with a shudder. I watch as my father furiously taps on the plate of the lamp—three times like you're supposed to—and getting no end results. "You short-circuit it. It's hot, Dahlia. You can't keep it on all the time, you're going to fucking burn it out."
I clench down my teeth, trying my hardest not to make a sound. I don't want to talk, because now I'm feeling terrible.
I didn't mean to ruin the adapter.
I didn't mean to mess up the outlet.
I didn't mean to burn out the lamp.
I didn't know.
I watch as he rips out the back-plug for the lamp, securing it back in and tapping it hard against the plate. It doesn't work. Of course it's not going to work if the outlet is broken.
"Dad," I mumble, almost inaudibly. I felt weak. "You have to fix the—"
"I know what the fuck to do," he snaps, holding out a hand and not bothering to look at my direction. He sounds so upset. I didn't mean to make him upset. "You can't say shit right now, you're just as helpless as your mother."
I part my lips, but I don't say anything. I stare at him, because the aggression of his tone takes me by surprise. Comparing me to my mother, I've always considered that a compliment. The way he's saying it, makes it seem like a horrible thing.
My father and my mother had an argument about money the other day, and how my father is spending careless amounts on objects he doesn't need. She tried to reason with him on his budget—but he took the opportunity to lament how she wasn't contributing anything to our family's income.
My father crouches down, facing the outlet. I don't offer any contributions, because I feel like I'm going to get yelled at again.
I don't like being yelled at.
"God, I can't fucking believe you did this on an already shitty evening," my father grumbles under his breath, adjusting the outlet and cross-examining the internal circuit. I feel even worse. "I gave a couple grand to my friend to put into stock for me and he just fucking told me he lost it. Can you fucking believe that? He just lost it."
I don't understand.
How does this relate back to my problem?
"Your mother's going to have a fit when she hears that," my father shakes his head, already despising her reaction. "She gets so fucking over her head sometimes. I get to do whatever I want with my money. She doesn't do anything to help with our finances and she wants to control how I spend my money?" He scoffs.
Dad, we're a family.
What you do affects her, affects me.
I feel terrible just hearing my father defame my mother, all because she was trying to help him. To help us.
"She doesn't have any say in what I do," he snaps, getting angrier by the second. My mother seems to have a bad taste in his mouth. "All she does is sit around and cook. I have to go to work. I have to be the responsible one."
That's not true.
Mom raised me for fourteen years while you served.
She raised a little girl by herself, with no help, barely any English, and she made it this far.
She's just as important as you are.
But I don't get the opportunity to say that. I don't get the chance to say anything because his phone pings and he takes it from his pocket, dropping everything to read the messages.
"Fuck," my father swore, making me cringe. "My friend just sent me a text telling me how he's going to figure out how to pay back the stocks. He's telling me about a new investment he wants to go into."
He stands from his spot, typing away at his phone. When I hear the little swoosh that announces he sent his final text, he turns back to me, and sees me standing in the middle of the floor.
"I have to go," he declares, but this time, his voice didn't hold irritation or frustration. Like the time he spent scolding me, telling me about his problems, helped alleviate some stress off his shoulders.
He looks back at the outlet, and sighs, "this is why you don't mess with things you don't understand. I hope you take it as a learning opportunity."
With that being said, he turns around and heads downstairs. I hear his footsteps descending down the steps and a few moments later, I hear the front door swing open and slammed closed behind him. I loosen my jaw.
I glance back at the outlet, loose and sagging, and I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I don't know if what I'm feeling should be anger, or sadness, or should I feel more empathetic towards him. My emotions are so haywire—all over the place—and in the end, all I feel is terrible.
I feel terrible for myself. I didn't mean to do all of this, I didn't mean to cause this many problems. I just needed his help.
I don't know if I'm valid enough to cry, if I'm valid enough to feel a bit upset.
Because he didn't do anything.
Because he didn't help me.
Because in the end, he only made me feel worse.
He didn't even manage to fix up my outlet—he only left and told me I had to face a lesson.
I don't care about the lesson. I just needed some light.
But I can't say any of that.
My father left me to go somewhere, for some guy, and the only thing I am learning right now is to never ask for help again.
Lo odio.
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AVA'S NOTES
any opinions on her father?
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