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"That's a nasty hangover you've got there."
Bonnie let her head fall into her hands, trying to desperately hide herself from her father who rounded the dining room table and searched for something to eat in the kitchen cabinet. Every one he opened was empty. He was faced with disappointment all the way to the refrigerator. He mumbled something under his breath about going to the supermarket on his way home, then opened the sink to fill a glass.
She insisted that she was not hungover, but she did look the part a little too well for her words to hold any weight. Ricky knew that she had attended that Boneyard party the night prior, just like he knew she had more than a couple of drinks by her sunken face. He tried not to guess. It couldn't be good for a father to think about that kind of stuff.
Too brutally, he slammed the glass of water next to her limp upper body on the table, coaxing a grown out of her. She wasn't necessarily drunk, still, just suffering the consequences of staying up all night replaying the same scene over and over again. John B in the water. JJ with a gun. It plagued every corner of her house, making her dizzy every time she stood up. Even the handful of painkillers she swallowed in the middle of the night didn't help with the imaginary ache.
Ricky put a hand on her shoulder, which made her flinch. He wasn't a rough man, he just didn't touch her often enough for his hand to become familiar. It spiked her senses, and her head shot out of the crook she built for it with her bare arms.
John B in the water.
She shook her head again, reaching for the glass and guzzling it down like it was some type of cheap liquor. She was more used to being drunk rather than hydrated. Water over beer would never be a choice she'd make for herself. She was not an alcoholic or a junkie, but just a girl who found it way too hard to survive her teenage years on her own.
JJ with a gun.
"Bonnie?"
Another flinch. She groaned and raked her hands through her hair, refusing to look her father in the eye. It angered her how he could act like this was normal: them sitting at the table, a picturesque father and daughter. He was only home once every three days, usually driving his truck out back and forth from the city to the mainland, then back to the island. That was how he made sure Bonnie was fed and clothed, so it wasn't really his fault that he was out so much. But it stopped there.
He was readying himself to leave again. It was not a reality she could escape, no matter the cans of beer she opened or the bottles of whiskey she stole from her father's room. He was leaving soon, and then she'd be alone in that house with all her boredom. She almost wanted to pick the gunshots at the beach over the loneliness in her kitchen.
The man called for her again, then took his hat off and put it on the table with a sigh. "What's going on?" he insisted. He inhaled deeply, coughing to make his voice sound a little less irritated. He didn't know how to speak to his daughter when she was down, only knew not to kick her.
