A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (38 page)

My dad sits down on the sofa beside Sal and lights up a smoke, offering
one to her. She takes it with a flirty grin. Ugh, these two, all smiles and
happiness until they run out of beer or money or whatever drugs they're on and
then they'll be at each other's throats.

“So, how's life been treating you here Flo? I hope you haven't been
getting into trouble,” my dad puts in, taking a drag.

“Yeah because I'm such a t-trouble maker aren't I Dad?” I say, my voice
hard.

I wouldn't normally be so outspoken with him, but it seems that the time
I've spent away from my father has made me realise just how pathetic and weak
he is. Just how much I shouldn't fear him. That and the confidence having a
friend like Frank gives me. When someone accepts you and likes you for who you
really are, it kind of helps you to form a solid sense of identity. Before I
came to Chesterport I was completely institutionalised by Dad. His brutality
was all I knew, and fearing him was my whole life. Now I've got something more,
a belief in myself and a boy who has my back.

Sal giggles, obviously getting the joke that I look nothing like a
trouble maker type. Well, inasmuch as she can seeing as she's blind drunk. Her
aura is grey and faded from years of hard living, with a slight outline of red.
Her story is an obvious one. Perhaps she was beautiful and passionate once, but
she put her faith in a few wrong men and from there her life went down the
toilet. It's sad to see that she's still repeating the pattern, since she's
here with Dad.

“Don't be cheeky,” says Dad. He won't get hard with me, not yet. It'll
take him a few days. Plus, he's in a good mood right now, wait until the thrill
of getting Gran's house and money wears off and the monster will creep out. It
always does.

Growing up with him was a series of bad times interspersed with periods
of excessive partying. Those were the times when I'd get a reprieve from his
torture, but it never lasted. In a way those periods of reprieve were worse,
because they allowed my sense of apprehension to build up, the knowledge that
one day soon he was going to come home in an unholy temper over something.

I'm lost in thought, but Dad's voice brings me back with a little thump
of my heart. “Hey, are you gonna stare at that can all night or are you gonna
drink the bloody thing?”

I place it on the floor. “I don't r-really want it.”

Dad stares me down, his eyes like black, soulless pits. “Pick it up.
Now.” I recognise his tone all too well, it's not the kind of tone that I'm
inclined to disagree with, so I bend down and pick the can back up. His ugly
aura swirls with sick satisfaction.

“You're gonna open it and you're gonna drink all of it Flo, and you're
not gonna complain, you hear me?”

“Yes,” I reply, barely a whisper.

The room is silent then, with the snap of the can as I open it the only
sound. I lift it to my lips and take a long, hard gulp. Sal giggles again. God
that woman finds the most basic things funny. All the alcohol and drugs must be
killing her brain cells. Dad often plays this game with me, making me drink
with him so that he doesn't have to do it alone. The thing is, I don't get why
he's doing it now, since he clearly has Sal to keep him company. Perhaps he
feels the need to reassert his dominance after my little bout of freedom from
him.

I've never really thought to indulge in underage drinking, because my dad
would be only too pleased to see that happen. One of the reasons teenagers
drink is to defy rules and authority. You can't exactly defy authority by doing
something it wants you to do. I keep drinking the beer, even though it tastes
like piss water, or what I imagine piss water tastes like, because it's better
than the alternative. If I don't drink it Dad will just come up with some other
new way to torture me.

He has a smug grin on his face as he stubs out his smoke in an ashtray
and gets up to go into the kitchen. A minute later he returns with some shot
glasses and a bottle of liquor. He places them all down on the coffee table in
front of me and begins pouring the clear golden brown liquid into the glasses.

I watch him closely as he does this, all the while doing my best to
finish my beer, because I know he won't leave me alone until I do. Old habits
really do die hard. He's only returned to my life for twenty minutes and
already I'm reverting back to obeying his every command. It's somehow
programmed into my brain.

There are five shots laid out before me, and Dad returns to sit down
beside Sal, giving her a big smacking kiss on the lips as she squeaks in
surprise and delight. Those shots look all too ominous, so I slow down my
consumption of the beer. Dad notices straight away. Trust a drug addicted,
alcoholic to be unnaturally in tune to how fast or slow someone's drinking.

“Don't fuck around with me Flo, finish that now before I have to make
you.”

I hate how his words cause my hands to shake. I bring the beer to my lips
and tip it up, drinking long and hard until there's nothing left.

“Good girl, now you can start in on the shots,” he orders.

“I'll be sick if I d-d-drink all of those,” I say, my head already a
little woozy, and that's from just one beer.

“No you won't, get them down you,” he laughs cruelly and Sal joins him,
grabbing the bottle Dad had poured the shots from and taking a slug out of it.

I pick up the first shot and knock it back quickly, like you'd do with
medicine to avoid the taste. It burns as it slides down my throat. Dad's face
is triumphant when he sees me wince at the sting. He wants me to give up so
that he can berate me some more. I'm not going to let him. In quick succession
I down the remaining four shots, and I can feel them sloshing around in my
stomach, making me queasy with the urge to throw up whatever food is down
there. The dinner I ate at Frank's house earlier this evening seems like a
lifetime ago.

Dad frowns when I'm finished the last one. But he's not letting me get
away that easily. He stands up and refills all of the glasses and then goes to
plug the stereo back in. The Happy Mondays blast out yet again.

I glance at the shots and then back at Dad. “You're not serious are
y-you?”

He looks at me very briefly, his voice is cold when he says, “Deadly,”
before Sal begins whooping and dragging him around the room to dance with her
as if they were in a night club or something.

I turn dejectedly back to the shots and resign myself to a hangover in
the morning. Since it's Sunday night I won't even have the benefit of a lie in.
After a while I pass out, despite the blaring music, with the taste of brandy
in my mouth and a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.

About the Author

L.H. Cosway has a BA in English Literature and
Greek and Roman Civilisation, and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives
in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things
in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food,
musical comedy, and of course, books. You can follow her on twitter at
twitter.com/lhcosway
and you can contact her at [email protected]. To be the first
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