Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
For my trouble, I got a sharp backhanded slap from my mother and a reminder we were living in his home. That kind of closed that discussion.
Life went on, but my job only lasted until two months ago when Dan came into the store in a drunken stupor and demanded the owner give me a pay rise. He caused such an embarrassing scene Mr. Jones told me not to bother coming back.
I’m job hunting right now, but it’s hard when the only employer I’ve ever had is unwilling to give me a reference and I have no real educational qualifications. Dan sure has a lot to answer for.
I reach our trailer and stand at the bottom of the steps leading up to it. I just stare at the steps, wondering how the hell my life came to this. The trailer is one of the slightly better ones in the park, but it’s still a shack. One of the steps is missing and the window has a crack in it. Stained curtains that are never open sit pulled taut against the windows, an inch or two too small to close properly.
The outside is nothing compared to the inside though.
Mom and I do try to keep the place in some sort of order, but Dan doesn’t make it easy for us. Every day the place gets littered with take-out cartons, empty beer cans, whisky or rum bottles and, of course, over-flowing ashtrays. Thank God, I have my own little room. My sanctuary.
I skip over the missing step and go inside.
“Violet? Is that you?” Dan shouts.
His voice is slurred. I can tell he’s not close to drunk enough to pass out, but he’s nothing like sober either. He’s in that horrible middle place where he thinks he’s a charming comedian, but one wrong move on my part can send him into a blind rage.
“No. It’s me, Amelia,” I shout back, praying he doesn’t bother coming out to talk to me.
I open the grubby fridge and put the milk into it. As I close the door my eyes dart around. The ashtray is already full, and six beer cans are scattered around the living room. I cleaned the place only two hours ago before I went out. I should do it again; save my mom the trouble when she returns from work. Then a rebellious thought crosses my mind.
Fuck it, she chose this life.
I sure as hell didn’t. A second later, I’m filled with guilt. All I’ve ever had is her and no matter what she does or says, she’s my mom and I love her.
I quickly clean the mess, then make my way down the narrow hall to my bedroom. I close the door as quietly as I can and lean against it. I don’t hear him moving around. Maybe he’s fallen asleep. I look around my bedroom. It’s by far the cleanest room in the trailer. There are no scattered cans, half-eaten take-away remains, or plates with gravy crusted onto them. It even smells like perfume which is really something considering the dense fog of alcohol fumes and stale cigarette smoke that hangs in the air in the rest of the trailer.
I hear Dan approaching, his footsteps shambling. The trailer rocks slightly as he stumbles and bumps into the wall. Shit. He is coming towards my room. I move away from the door just as he crashes it open.
Bastard!
He’s wearing grey sweatpants that are covered in stains, stains I can only hope are beer rather than piss. He’s shirtless – not a good look for him. His beer belly hangs over; the skin tight and shiny, and so white it almost glows in the gloomy hallway. He’s also in desperate need of a shower. The smell of alcohol and old sweat that clings to him reaches me immediately and I try hard not to react.
2
AMELIA
“Where’s your mother?” he slurs.
“At work. It’s Friday,” I remind as politely as I can, even though it’s freaking irritating that he can’t even keep her schedule in his head.
“And yet you’re here. Why aren’t you at work?”
I resist the strong urge to roll my eyes. I don’t want to set him off on another rant about how ungrateful I am.
“You got me fired, remember?”
He snorts and I’m not sure if it’s laughter or disgust. “You’re too good for that place anyway.”
Place comes out as “plashe”, which tells me he’s a bit more gone than I originally thought. I shrug my shoulders. I’m not sure what he wants from me and I’m very wary of saying the wrong thing and sparking his temper.
“Pretty girl like you, you should be a dancer or something,” he says, a speculative, admiring look in his eyes.
I’m sure somewhere in his drink-addled brain, he imagines it’s a compliment, but it sure doesn’t feel like one to me. I feel disgust swirling in my stomach. He doesn’t have to come right out and say it. I know exactly what he means by dancer. Stripper.