Society (Phan)

Chapter Twenty Eight

The next day, I woke up by a smash. My reflexes kicked in, I quickly out on some tracksuit bottoms and a shirt before running down the stairs.

On the way down, my memories of yesterday hit me as I was halfway down the stairs. The arguments. The suicidal prevention line. The infidelity. The upset.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I heard a second smash, and then some retching. Scared of what I was yet to be faced with, I walked into the kitchen to find my Mum surrounded in a pool of her own vomit, smashing the empty bottles of yesterday's drink session.

"Mum! Mum, stop!" I said, grabbing the fourth bottle she was about to smack against the counter.

There were another two wine bottles meaning she could've drunk six bottles of wine, that's unlikely unless she secretly has alcohol poisoning, so I presume her and Dad must've shared one or two before the truth yesterday was spilled.

As soon as Mum saw me, she collapsed to her knees and wept, kneeling in her own vomit.

"Mum," I said, trying to not cry myself. "Come on, I'll clean this up."

I got the bucket I'd left her with yesterday that strangely wasn't used, gave it to her and the bottle of water, and sat her down in the couch, giving her some more paracetamol and going into the kitchen to clean everything up.

After cleaning everything up, I took my Mum upstairs and put her into my bed, appreciating the fact that she wouldn't want to sleep in hers. I changed her sheets and tidied her room, checked on her seeing she was asleep, and went downstairs to make her some food.

I rang school telling them that I wasn't going to come to school today. They didn't say any more but the wish to me that they were hoping that everything was okay and hopefully I'd be in tomorrow.

I also drafted a text to Phil explaining everything, he replied saying that as soon as school had finished he'd be straight over to help.

Being as I was such a shit cook and I really didn't want to risk setting the house on fire, I stuck with pasta because it was so basic.

As I was cooking the pasta to al denté, there was a knock at the door.

I checked the clock to see that it was only half eleven so unless Phil was bunking, which I doubt, then it must be the postman.

I grabbed the keys from the side and opened the door, but no, it wasn't who I expected. It was my own vile Father, beer in hand and tears running down his red and unshaven cheeks.

"Dad, Mum and I made it clear enough yesterday that you need to fuck off. Unless you want your useless shit, wait at the end of the road and I get it and bring it out to you. Otherwise, fuck off before I call the police."

"Buuuuut Daaaaaan," he drinking slurred, extending the vowels. "I looove you and your Mum very much and I know what I did was wrong, but people make mistakes and accidents and mistakes, wait I just said that? Didn't I? Haha, but I love you son."

"Shut up! My poor and used Mother doesn't want to hear your bullshit when she's sleeping!"

"She's sleeping, awh! Let me see my wife of twenty one years!"

"No, Dad," I said and shook my head with disbelief, "please, just leave."

"Leave? Where to? This is my house." He answered, looking sad suddenly.