My whole life, I was told to care more for others, rather than myself. I know it’s the right way to be, because I’m helping those around me, and making everyone else’s lives better. As I run my stubby fingers through the tenderness of my body, my fingers jump several times as I glide through special places that send needles up my spine. My torso, the purest of white, is encompassed by patches of sensitive areas, stained blue and black. I know that I am helping my father, who emits a perpetuating aroma of melancholy and liquor.
I have 13 years of age and go by the name Erick. My life is pretty normal. I have people that I hate the least, or friends, my grades are excellent, not including social studies because my teacher has it out for me, and I am a solitaire expert. I’m best in the county, I think. It’s me, my older brother Andy, whose 15, my mom, and my dad. My dad always pushes the idea of us moving from our suburban abode, to the fast paced urban lifestyle. Everyone disagrees of course, but he always says “change is always for the best.”
The reason for my sudden skirmish with my father just a few minutes ago dates back to exactly one month ago. It was his birthday, and we hosted a celebration for him. I could feel the house rising in degrees, from the amount of bodies that accumulated in my living room. Constant laughter and smiling from very heterosexual men and their wives. One minute I set out a whole bag of chips, and the next moment, I couldn’t find the bowl. Like, I knew the people at my dad’s architecture firm floor liked him, but I didn’t expect the whole firm to show up.
So the party went on, with only a couple of beer stains on the couch. Everyone was having a ball. There was maybe a little too much human contact for me on the twister floor, but at least only couples played. My mom leaves the kitchen with a giant sheet cake saying, “Happy 48th Birthday Rick!!! The cake was vegan of course.
“Time to start singing everyone. Can we do this before the five-O intrude us on noise pollution?” she uttered.
“Is that my age on the cake?!” he asked hesitantly.
Mom replied, “Oh honey, it was only fifty cents extra.”
So he blew out the candles, ugh boring. Then he received a glass bottle with a red ribbon tied around it from this guy I didn’t know.
“Bob, you know I don’t drink right?” questioned my father.
“Ehhhh, it’s one time. And it’s the best liquor in the county! Try it.” pleaded Bob.
As Bob staggered away dropping splashes of beer, my dad popped the cork off as if it was a pimple noticed hours before a dance. The reason he never drank before, was because he never had a reason to. His parents weren’t bad, no divorce, no peer pressure. He was a golden child. Disgusting.
Once the burning sensation was discovered, his body rejected the juice. This wasn’t
surprising to me. He immediately placed the gift in the storage case in the living room next to a family portrait of us.
The night after the party, I was in the midst of dreaming about the person I liked, because he gives me mixed signals, until my eyes instinctively opened to the sound of heavy footsteps, the sliding of a cabinet, and a large cough. I assumed it was (insert name), because all teenagers drink, and went back to bed.
Little did I know that this midnight creeping would turn into a daily routine within 2 weeks. I’d come home from school and gag at the stench of Jack Daniels. It was the cheap kind, unlike his birthday gift.
I used to have a long 2- minute conversation with him on how my day was, but two weeks of alcoholism made me wish I didn’t live at home. His topics of conversation were one of two things: why I wasn’t an athlete, or why I wasn’t a carbon copy of him. One day he even asked,
“Son, are the gays getting to you? Why aren’t you a football player. Is there some ----- you want to impress at your silly art club?”
Upon hearing that, I turned around and sprinted outside the door faster than the speed at which my hormones move. On the corner of our street, there is an old oak tree, and that is where I planted myself. How does he have the audacity to call me out like that?! He’s always been my number one supporter for my art. I was once his DaVInci Nuevo or new DaVInci. His judgement is always right, because he’s never been wrong before. Maybe I am not doing something right with my time.
I return 3 hours and 5 minutes later, and family dinner has already been started. I see my mom finally back from her job, my brother who was probably smoking cannabis, and my father, whose choice of drink surprisingly is drank from a glass bottle.
“Don’t ever let me catch you being late to our family dinners, you hear?” he snarled.
I pleaded, “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time and…”
“Shut up! Eat your food now,” he barked.
The rest of the dinner was as blissful as the mountains in Switzerland, yet felt as hostile as a camp made by the Nazis. After that incident, I was always early to dinner, helping set up and usually cleaning everything as dad watches more people beat each other up over a misshapen ball. 
Two weeks later or a month after the party, I had met a cool guy named Barney, and that’s it. He was not my partner nor did I ever want to be his significant other. But it didn’t matter to my father, since he saw us walking together and talking. Obviously he was inebriated, but he surprisingly was taking out the trash. Probably full of his bags of cheese puffs. Apparently artificial cheese and liquor mix well. Anyways, as soon as he spotted me, the whole county didn’t need to press their ears against the door to hear the drama. Luckily it was just a slower paced attempt at my name that everyone heard.
“Erick!!!, get in this ---- house this instant!”
As I turned to face him in the living room, my eyes suddenly were at ground level. A 200lb weight descended upon me, and my torso became a slab of meat that needed tenderizing. I didn’t even dare to fight back, what with all the slurs he was slurring at me. In 10 minutes, my brother came home and saw what was happening. The authorities were called, and my father tried to make an escape. Andy helped me up and consulted with me on our next move.
“You need to tell the police what went on today. There’s no way that he is getting away with this,” he addressed.
“I agree this is bad, but he is still our dad. Remember those days when our family took trips and everyone had fun, I’m still convinced he’s still the same guy who loves us,” I pleaded.
“That man is not who you think he is. How could someone who is supposed to love us, treat you like ---- for the way you are? Stop listening to whatever he says and think for yourself! He hurt you, so cut him out,” Andy yelled.
A tall black officer knocked on the door and explained to us that our father has been apprehended by a few officers. He was seen passed out on a playground.
“We have your father in custody. Would you like to explain to us why you called?” asked the officer.
“Let me show you something,” I replied.