Victor, Victorious

Chapter Twenty

When he came in through the front door, Victor didn't see or hear his father anywhere. The house smelled like Arturo had once again forgotten to take the kitchen trash out to the curb for pickup. Arturo's truck was parked in the driveway, but the silence in the house suggested lifelessness. Perhaps his dad had stumbled to the bar down the street. It definitely wouldn't have been the first time.

A wave of relief rushed over Victor as he made his way to his bedroom. He'd somehow dodged a bullet, and he wouldn't have to deal with his dad's bull—

Shit.

Arturo lay in Victor's bed, snoring like a bear with sleep apnea. Aluminum beer cans and brown and green bottles littered the room. Many surrounded Arturo on the bed like tombstones in a graveyard.

What the hell was the man doing there? He had his own bed, couch, or floor to pass out on. Why Victor's mattress? He probably figured the best way of running into his son was if he hung out in Victor's room all day.

The boy quietly passed over the threshold, noting that the door was still broken from when his father had kicked it open over a week earlier. Victor tiptoed around the empty landmines his father had thrown aside. He picked up comic books from the floor and placed them gingerly into his unzipped backpack. He couldn't have moved more urgently if the room were filled with Ebola patients.

The boy reached for a thick stack of comics atop his bookshelf, and, in his haste, he accidentally knocked over a half-full bottle of beer that had also been sitting there.

The bottle hit the floor with a loud thump. Victor ignored the spilt liquid.

Watching Arturo, hoping the man would stay asleep, Victor didn't pay attention to the fallen bottle, and knocked it again with the side of his foot. It rolled noisily across the room, bouncing off one of the bedframe's legs.

Arturo stirred, moaning.

Damn it! Nonononononononono.

His father sat up, holding his head. Arturo looked at his son with a single open eye. "Victor? S'that you?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"You're back."

"I'm just getting some stuff. I'll be fast."

"I'm sorry, Victor."

"Okay."

"I hate myself when I get that way with you."

"Yeah."

"Where you been staying?"

"A friend's place. His mom is cool." Victor made sure not to say Sergio's name on the off chance that his dad decided to come looking for him.

"How long you gonna be there?"

"I don't know."

Sergio's mom had said that, as long as Victor was on his best behavior, he could stay under her watch. He was no burden for her.

Arturo nodded. "Alright. How's school? They let you back yet?"

"Yeah," said Victor. "It's okay."

He pulled a plastic shopping bag out of a pants pocket. He opened drawers and began stuffing the bag with clean clothes.

"Any more fights?" Arturo asked.

"No." Victor had absolutely zero interest in filling his dad in on anything whatsoever.

"That's good, that's good." The man paused before saying, "You know I don't really blame you for what happened to your mom."

Then, why have you said it to me so many times? Victor thought. He kept his mouth shut, though.

Arturo continued. "I don't know why I say that to you. It ain't right. I just...miss her. She was the best person I ever knew."

Victor tried not to think about it. About the cancer. About how it snatched the best person he ever knew from his life.

Around two-and-a-half years ago, near the end, when his mom got really sick and had to stay in the hospital, Victor didn't really have any way to cope with his feelings, especially since his father had dealt with his own pain by drinking two six-packs a day. Victor had never been a very good student, but he really began acting up at school when his mom only had months, weeks, days to live.

He didn't know how to show his sadness in a way that didn't explode from him in the guise of anger. Reports of his misbehavior stressed out his parents. Eventually, his mom passed away, and, as if that wasn't traumatizing enough...Arturo told him that she hadn't died from a battle with an evil disease—but that she had died from a broken heart, from the disappointment and embarrassment that Victor had brought upon her.

How messed up was that? Arturo the drunk, blaming him.

But that didn't stop Victor from believing it was true. If only he'd been a better boy, a better son, his mom might have focused her energy and strength on staying alive a little longer.

Arturo said, "I should be more grateful, Victor. She died, yeah, but I still got you. I need to appreciate you more. I'll start doing that, okay?"

"Sure, Dad." Victor had heard such lies before.

"You're staying over, right? Please?"

"No," said Victor.

"Really?" Arturo seemed dejected.

Good. That's what he deserved.

Victor tied his bag of clothes shut. "See you later."

"Damn. Okay. I'll try to clean up all this by the time you get back."

"Yeah. Cool. Bye." Victor left.

He hated the part of himself that wanted to give his dad another chance. He hated the part of himself that wanted to believe that his father could change.

The boy stopped in the hall, turned, glanced through the open bedroom doorway.

Arturo made no effort to go after his son. Instead, he lifted the can that was beside him on the bed and shook it to see if any beer was left. He gulped the remaining alcohol in a single swig.

Disgusted, ready to scream, Victor ran from "home" before he lost his mind.

He refused to look back. Not once.

In that moment, he wasn't sure if he would ever live in that house again.