Self/Things of the past
tw-alcoholism
The girl was maybe six, or possibly even. A little blonde thing in shabby cloths and holey sneakers. She was crouched on the floor, staring at the form of her father laying passed out on their living room floor. She poked his shoulder and he groaned.
"Dad?" Bexley tried again. "Daddy?"
He groaned and waved her off. Turning on his side to get sick while he already smelled like cheap whiskey and equally cheap perfume. She sighed, falling back to sit on her butt, knees tucked to her chest. He did this every single night and she was growing tired of it. She expected him dead one of these times, but the little girl had shed any emotion toward the man ages ago.
"I'm hungry," she whined, and he waved his hand at her as he turned back onto his back. "Make something," he grumbled, words barely coherent.
Bex rolled her eyes, getting to her feet and making her way to the kitchen. Take out boxes were in piles everywhere. Silverware scattered and filthy. The floor looked like it hadn't been mopped in ages, and the fridge was growing some unknown thing in the corners. She found one last slice of cheese that wasn't moldy, and the heel of the bread. Slapping it together she dug for a clean pan, but ended up having to wash one. The sloppily made grilled cheese was put onto the stove and the fire started. Bexley gripped the flimsy spatula in her tiny hand, having stood on a chair to watch the mess cook in the pan.
A knock at their door startled her though. The tool falling to the floor as she climbed down and went to get it. The little blonde saw the man for the heat and had just poked her head out enough.
"Uh is your dad here?" he asked, eyeing the child warily. "He's sleeping. What do you want?" she barked in return. "Well uhm, I need to talk to him." "You're turning the heat off. I know."
Bexley slammed the door, her father having not budged. Smoke wafted into the room, and then she smelled it. Running for the kitchen, she was horrifed. The curtains on the window beside the stove had gone up in flames when she let the grilled cheese burn. She tried everything and it wouldn't go out. Tears poured down her cheeks as she was frantic. Then she ran to her father and threw herself onto the floor beside him.
"Dad! Dad wake up!" Bexley shook his shoulder, but nothing. Out cold. "Daddy, please."
With no other way, she ran out of the house. Terrified and trembling, she found the neighbors in their run down area and knocked at least a dozen times. The older man answered and she spluttered an explanation and he quickly grabbed his phone. When the fire department showed up, they had to drag her father from the growing blaze while she stood on the front lawn weeping into the shirt of her elderly neighbor.
A shiny black car rolled up to their mess, and Bexley noticed the very official look of the woman who stepped out.
"Bexley Adger, yes?" she asked. "Why?" "Bexley, I am going to have to ask that you come with me," the woman responded, extending a hand. "No way. I'm staying with my dad. He needs me."
He would die without her she thought, but kicking and scream she was flung into the back of the car and off to the first of many trips to the foster cares office. Her dad would clean himself up and then the routine would be spun again. As she got older she learned how to spin the lies and the stories so it didn't happen, but it did for a while. Homes with up tight parents. Protective parents. Some living in the slums and barely making it let alone with some kid tossed on their doorstep.
It was the only way Bexley knew how to live. The only reason she learned how to survive.