Page 30 of Buried in the Woods Below

The crash of broken glass rips me awake.

My father’s voice—slurred, low, furious—curses from the living room.

The slam of a cabinet door. A crunch.

I glance at the clock.

2:04 a.m.

He’s having another one of his nights.

I slip out of bed. I’d rather go to him than wait for him to come to me. That’s how you stay safe. You move first. You stay in control.

A blast of winter air leaks through the old windowpanes. I shiver. My terrycloth shorts and thin tank top offer little defense. Still, I start toward the stairs, bracing myself. I pass my parents’ room and hear my mom snoring. She’s taken to wearing earplugs these days.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls again. A thud. Another crunch of glass.

I wince.

I left my textbooks on the living room floor. He must’ve tripped over them.

I pad down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. The cream carpet is warm and soft between my toes. On the third step from the bottom, the stench hits me. Vodka, dense and caustic, as if I’m drowning inside the bottle.

Then I see him. Or what’s left of him.

Gone is the man who used to wake me early for nature walks in Noerenberg Gardens. Who slipped me extra whipped cream at The Original Pancake House and whispered, Don’t tell your mother. Who sat beside me at Twins games and taught me how to keep score. Who called me Cha-cha.

That man had sun-soaked skin and warm blue eyes, raindrops. Charming kinks in his brown hair. A voice like honey. This man is a zombie.

His hair hangs greasy around his face, unwashed and wild. His pupils are bloodshot. Even the way he looks at me is different. He paces, crunching glass into the oriental rug. A shattered vodka bottle lies like a gutted animal on the coffee table, red Smirnoff font gleaming like blood. He stumbles into the kitchen, unscrews a bottle of Jim Beam.

He catches me watching.

His lip curls. His eyes narrow to slits. He points to the living room floor. “How many times have I told you to pick your fucking books up off the floor?”

He’s never said that. But I know better than to argue.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Clean this shit up.” His voice is low. Controlled. That’s worse than shouting.

My hands clench. It’s two in the morning. I have a trig test tomorrow.

“I said, clean it up,” he growls, louder now. A stranger.

I drop to my knees. The carpet pricks my skin as I reach for the glass shards one by one. I feel him watching me. Pacing. Smirking. Like he’s evaluating a new recruit. Splotches break out on my chest. I can’t meet his eyes.

A piece snags on the rug, slicing through my thumb. A rivulet of blood trickles down my palm. I suck on the wound, the metallic tang mixing with salt and anger.

“You’re fucking worthless,” he says.

Something snaps—a part of me that’s been suffocated for too long; someone else standing up inside my skin, taller than I remember being, steadier than I should be. My vision narrows, colors too sharp, sound too far away. I’m watching from somewhere just behind my own eyes. My voice comes sharp, strange in my throat.

“Then why don’t you clean it up, you fucking drunk.”

The bloody shard drops from my hand and clinks against the coffee table.

His face slackens in shock as though waking from a dream.