40 Ounces of Olde English "800"

40 Ounces of Olde English "800"

It's late. The house is empty. But then I hear your footsteps, as you stagger down the hall. I turn my music down, knowing that is what you are about to scream. I hear you turn the locked doorknob, banging on the door. I don't answer. I just turn my music down. You bang again, and yell for me to open the door. I sigh, pushing myself out of my chair, opening the door. You stand there, a bottle of malt liquor in your hand. Unbalanced; you hold onto the doorway for dear life. I imagine you letting go, being out of my life forever. Your take one last guzzle before you talk, me pretending to give a crap. I don't hear a word being said, because it is hard to concentrate when a grown man is spraying me with his liquorish breath. I nod, and you take another sip. You ask me what I am listening to, what's that 'bull' blasting on the stereo. I roll my eyes, tell you the song for the one-hundredth time in my life. You simply raise an eyebrow, asking me who sings it. I tell you, once again, for the millionth time who it was by. Who all the songs I listen to is by. You look confusingly at me, swaying in the hall.

You take a long guzzle, and you smile at me. Your speech is slurred, and I take another deep sigh, getting comfortable. I prepare to hear your hour long speech you give me every single night. I mock you as I turn my back on you, nodding as if I understand. I sit in irk, you continuing to ramble on with your 'One day' speech. I laugh at all the parts you laugh about, as if I really care. I counter-talk your phrases, and I ask you questions just to get you out of my room faster. I deal with this every night. I miss the old you, but I am afraid to tell you. You ran Ma away, and I won't let you run me away. I hide your liquor, you fuss at me, telling me to give it back. You threaten to beat me, I threaten to beat you back. You ramble on, slamming your door. I throw the bottle away, you slap me across the face. I give you a glare, and you turn back to your resting place.

The morning has come, you don't even remember the night before. I smile, saying 'Hi dad'. This is my regular routine. You smile back, rubbing your head. You wince at the pain, telling me you hate to drink. But I can't tell. I nod, saying I understand.

I hear your footsteps, I turn the music down. I sit through your speech, and you ramble until you walk out of my room. I hide your liquor, you slap me in the face.

You smile, saying good-morning.

I smile back, wishing death upon you.