The List

chapter 27

After four days, I came home. I came home after realizing I couldn't wear the same jeans and some of Ryder's shirts over and over again. I came home after Angelica called me for the twentieth time, and this time, I answered.

"Alice?" She asked.

I swallowed in discomfort. "What's up baby?"

Her voice cracked into hysterics. "Why aren't you coming home? Dad says you guys got into a fight and stormed off! Why the fuck would you leave me alone with him?"

Guilt ebbed into my system and I gnawed on my lower lip. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm coming home tomorrow. After school."

She continued to sob. "Is this what it's going to be like after you leave me for college? Alice fuck— I don't know how I'm going to survive without you!"

"It's going to be okay," I reassured her, though I wasn't really sure if it was going to be okay. I wanted to go away for college, I wanted to go far away. I didn't want to stay anywhere near this forsaken city. But then how would I take care of Angelica? How would our father handle this?

She sniffled. "I miss you."

"I miss you too baby."

After four days, I didn't realize how much of a pig-sty our house could become. I stepped into the house in the afternoon, expecting the same house I left. But it wasn't. There were beer bottles strewn on every single surface, the scent of pungent vomit filtering into my nose, causing me to wrinkle my nose.

My father's shirts and ties were mopping the floor, spills of unknown liquids soaking them. I admit, I was a little angry at Angelica for letting the house become this much of a mess. It wasn't that hard to clean up after our father.

Stepping further into the house, I saw him. My father.

And he saw me. And motioned me over.

I was frozen with fear though. Was he going to hit me again?

"Alice."

His voice was clipped, calm, nonchalant, as if he didn't cause me to run away from this house, as though this wasn't his fault.

I took a few tentative steps forward. He wasn't going to hit me again, he wouldn't dare.

He seemed, put together, the juxtaposition of a clean, freshly pressed man in a heap of mess seemed, psychotic. He was typing on his laptop, a few files covering the coffee table that wasn't taken over by the brandy bottles and the crystal glasses he used when he drank hard liquor.

"You didn't call."

My fear was broken.

"You hit me," I countered angrily.

At this, his grey eyes focused on me, thoughtful. He crinkled his face, his liquor-filled breath fanning over my face, "How much did I fuck you two up?"

I laughed dryly. "We raised ourselves."

He swallowed. "After you left, I might've thrown a fit. Angelica came home while I was in hysterics and called my psychiatrist. I told him I hit you," he admitted. "They prescribed me a new medication."

I hardened, folding my arms against my chest. "And what did you psychiatrist say when you told him you hit me?"

My father cleared his throat and placed the laptop on his files. He motioned for me to sit down and when I didn't, he spoke. "I'm sorry Alice—"