My Briella | ✎ ongoing

04

"Drapetomania (n.) an overwhelming urge to run away."

B R I E L L A
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I don't remember the last time when I could look at my father and not feel scared of him. When I could look at him and see him as someone I look up too, and someone who raised me.

Barely raised me.

He has went through a lot.
Losing his job, losing his wife, getting into alcohol and drugs. I want to be there for him, but i don't think he knows he's slowly losing me too.

I'm trying my best to be there for him, but no matter how hard I try, it will never be enough.

I can't look at him in his eyes anymore. I used to hug him, be able to kiss his cheek. But now I'm scared if i get too close to him his hands will collide with my cheek, wrist, eye, shoulder. Anywhere.

It's sad to admit. But I'm scared of him.

He shouldn't be someone i fear, I know that. And sometimes i feel guilty for feeling this way.

I love him, but sometimes i question if he ever loved me as his daughter, or if he only considers me his punching bag.

"Are you hungry?" He lets out a sound in-between a groan and a hum. A stained bottle in his left hand as he hangs lazily on the brown single couch.

"I can make you a-"

He cuts me off in annoyance.
"Do you ever shut up?." He holds out a palm to my body, as if he's shutting a door between us.

"I'm not hungry."

My body naturally flinches at his tone, straying back to the kitchen stocked with very little groceries.

"Get me another beer!" I hear from the living room. I hear the clink of an empty glass hitting the floor with a halo echo.

I let out a sigh opening the fridge. The sound of an old 90s action movie playing on the television.

It shouldn't be this way. What made it become this way?

I grab the brown bottle, before walking back to the living room. The smell of alcohol and weed masks the room strongly.

I'm thankful that I don't go to school smelling like the aromas of the house. Washing my clothes separately at a laundry mat, and keeping my clothes buried underneath my closet or in the bakery helps a lot with the smell.

I head back to the living room hesitantly, handing him the bottle, scared he might swing it at me in an instant.

He takes the bottle roughly from my hands, thankfully not sparing me another glance.

"Do we have any bourbon?." His voice is raspy and tired, a crumb of what looks like pizza is stuck in the greyness of his beard.

His eyes never stray away from the t.v, watching as the flashes of a pistol flaring flashes an iridescent colour against his features.

"No I don't think we have any."

"Go get some." He says sternly paying close to no attention.