My father is anxiously peering out of the tattered curtains, shirtless, his pot belly bulging out over his jeans. His gray hair is balding on top, and despite his stomach, he's a tall, lanky old man with a defined jaw, eyebrows that are constantly furrowed, and wrinkles covering every inch of his face.
“No, I need you here. You’ve been gone all damn day,” he snaps, hardly sparing me a glance.
It’s after eight-thirty at night, and I’ve been waitressing at the diner all day. I’m exhausted, but for what feels like the millionth time, she’s out of diapers and no one mentioned it. I'm turning twenty tomorrow, but I'll have to pick up another shift now that I'm spending today’s tip money on Layla.
“She needs her diaper changed, and there isn’t any more,” I argue.
He snarls, letting the curtain fall as he faces me.
“She ain’t none of your concern.”
But she is.
She’s sure as fuck not his concern, even though she’s his daughter.
Dad scratches his arm, track marks blemishing his skin. Again, he glances toward the curtains, as if he’s waiting for someone to show up. Probably one of his creepy friends, sure to arrive with a book bag full of drugs, despite the fact that he just made me buy him some yesterday.
“I won’t be longer than twenty minutes,” I reason. “I just need diapers and formula.”
Anxiety spikes in my chest as Layla begins to cry from upstairs. I just laid her down, and I had hoped she’d stay asleep until I got back. She’s been fussy for the past week. Right when her eyes close and I think she’s finally asleep, they pop right back open and she releases a sorrowful wail that rips my heart out.
“Let me get Layla settled first, and I’ll—”
“No,” he barks. “If you’re going to go, then go now. I ain’t got all fucking night.”
“Fine,” I mumble.
My four-month-old sister is now screaming at the top of her lungs, while our mother is knocked out on the couch, her mouth open and drool trailing down her chin as she softly snores .
A used needle lies on the coffee table in front of her, a bead of blood still staining the tip.
She won’t be waking up, which means that Layla will be left to her tears while I’m gone.
Sighing, I head toward the door, pausing briefly when I hear Dad call out, “And grab me a pack of cigs and another six-pack of beer!”
I don’t bother answering—not that he expects one. He knows I’ll do what he says. If I don’t, I’ll have to invest in another bottle of concealer. The one I have is almost empty.
The sound of Layla’s screams is silenced as I shut the door behind me, my anxiety worsening and gnawing at my stomach. Her poor little throat will be sore, and I’m sure her head will be hurting by the time I get back.
She hates it when I leave her alone, and I hate what that implies. There are days that I wonder if it’s more than just an attachment to me that puts that fear in her eyes when I walk away.
If Dad is hurting her like he hurt me…
I don’t know what I’ll do. Except when I’m finished, I’ll be covered in blood.
My hands tremble as I speed-walk to the gas station a few blocks down the road. It’s a warm and breezy fall night in October—likely one of our last before winter approaches.
Reaper Canyon, Montana, is surrounded by the Electric Peak range, and it's where I was born and raised. The daunting name of this small town is fitting, considering it's where everyone's dreams go to die. This state exudes beauty, but even the mountains off in the distance can’t take away the ugliness of my world.
I keep my head down, focusing on the hole in the tip of my dirty tennis shoes. My feet are too big for them now, but I haven’t had the money to get a new pair yet. All of it goes to Layla or buying my parents drugs.
On my sixteenth birthday, Dad threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a job. Said I needed to start pulling my weight around the house, as if going to school, doing all the chores, and getting their drugs for them wasn’t enough. Let alone being at his and Mom’s beck and call twenty-four seven.
My entire first paycheck went on their cigarettes, beer, and drugs. Now, they rely on me to buy our food, and everything for Layla.
The overhead bell chimes as I walk into the local gas station, drawing the clerk’s attention. Aside from Layla, he’s the only person in this world I actually like.
“Hey, Mol,” he greets, a smile stretching across his face, laugh lines forming in his brown skin. He's one of the few people I know who is always happy. I don't believe I've ever known that feeling. Maybe when Layla smiled at me for the first time. But it was fleeting. It didn't take long for my parents to steal away the joy again.