11.09.01-1:11 a.m.>

My Father will be 50 next week.

We will celebrate.

I remember when he turned 40.

I was still in elementary school.

5th grade.

My mother had a party planned. She was very excited. Things had been going well,no fighting for a while

Which was rare around those times. She ordered a hero, sent out invites, made phone calls, bought presents.

He never came home the night before the party. Stumbled in drunk at some ungodly hour. I was always afraid of those footsteps,so loud,stumbling upstairs. Then they would yell back and forth and I would listen, praying that maybe my brother in the bunk below couldnt hear, or was able to sleep through it. I remember he would sit with us the next morning, and try to tell us something, something important, that he was sorry. I could smell the alcohol on his breath,and could see a bleariness in his eyes, but he was sorry. The man I was talking to was not my daddy, he looked like a picture of my dad, maybe a really bad drawing. He was sad,and desperate looking.

He was sorry, and he promised that it wouldnt happen again, hed said. He apologized with hugs and kisses and it seemed sincere. So I believed him, because I didnt know any better.

But there would be more nights, just as there were before. More nights and more excuses. More nights, where I could hear tears in my mothers throat and smell alcohol on my father's breath in the morning.

There would be more nights in my future,where I'd hope that maybe he was dead, because it would be easier to explain to my friends when they asked where he was.

There would be more dysfunction,

different kinds of dysfunction.

There was never any party. She called it all off. I could see the upset on her face and an anger that made me uneasy.

This was the beginning of the end. An ending thats yet to happen. God knows whats kept my parents together.

I certainly dont.

And if you've ever wondered why I hate alcohol,well I think its kinda self explanatory at this point.