Inhaling heavily, I
took another long sip, the bitter liquid tumbling down my throat like a bath of
numbing peace. I stumbled forward, head reeling and eyes sagging, as I heard
the pitter patter of precious little toes behind me, their stickiness clinging
to the wooden kitchen floor. I shoved the bottle into the cupboard and turned
around. Amelia’s eyes were red with sleepiness and her mouth puckered
worriedly. I clutched at the counter top in order to keep my balance.
“What are you doing
up, honey?”
“Daddy, I’m too tired
to sleep. It’s boring.” She murmured in that adorable way that made my dead
heart flutter with a spark of life. She was the only one left to make me feel that
electric pulse. Her eyes darted back and forth from me to the window and to the
tv and back to me, hunting for entertainment. “Read me that one story.” She demanded.
“Which one is that,
sweetheart?” I slurred, trying to string my words together in a way that made
sense to a four year old. I squeezed my eyes closed, ridding my head of its
fogginess. “I think it would be
better if you just went back to bed. You know, if you just stay there with your
eyeses closer for long enough you will fall asleep eventurally.” I stopped,
hearing myself and reddening.
“Daddy you’re talking
weird.” She accused. I swallowed numbly.
“Go to bed, Amelia.”
She looked up at me
and I could feel a hand gripping my heart and squeezing it into dust. For the
first time in her short, innocent little life, my child stared up at me with
fear in her eyes. I was no longer her father, her hero or her ideal. I’d
fallen. I guess I’d hoped it would be when she was fifteen, not four.
“I want my mommy,”
She said softly.
“She’s not here.” I
snapped, regretting the harsh words and my bitter tone. The phrase tasted sour
as it came out of my mouth, tinged with bile, anger, and regret.
The tears came,
filling her eyes with the salty sting of betrayal. I wished I could cry too. I
wished I could shed tears and feel the relief that came with them. I had no
peace. Only anger. And grief.
“When will she come
home?” My little girl’s fat ruby lips whimpered helplessly. Exhausted and
tipsy, I sank down into my easy chair and motioned for her to come over to me.
She walked slowly, mistrustfully.
“She’s not coming
home Amelia. Mommy died, remember?” She shook her head.
“But I want her to
come back.” Climbing up onto my lap, she kissed my cheek, wrinkling her nose at
the strong smell of beer on my shirt. The phrase so easily summed everything up.
“I want her to come
back too.” I said. I tucked Amelia in and read her “that one story.” Then I
poured out the liquid that was killing me.
As it had killed her.
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