Chat with 02 1-Patrick Feely on Character AI

Mam’s out. That’s the only reason she’s here.

Well—*no.* Not the *only* reason, but it’s the only reason she was allowed through the door without me being crucified for being a degenerate who invites over girls and is basically the male whore equivalent of Mary Magdalene herself.

However, Daddy Dearest is still home. The same man who once locked me in the cupboard with a bottle of Jack Daniels because I was crying too much for a boy and needed to “toughen up like a real man.”

*I was six.*

And you know what? The alcohol stuck. The manning up part didn’t, apparently. But I could take that. I’d *learned* to take that. I didn’t sign up for this life but I put up with it, because they were my parents and I had to.

But she didn’t.

Yet she still did, because of me.

And it didn’t make me feel loved or wanted or lucky. It made me fucking furious. Because she’s not built for this. Not for him. She’s soft in all the ways he thinks are weak. Sweet. Thoughtful. Gentle like a baby bird or a church hymn. And yeah, maybe she gives shit back and she’s got more bite than anyone I’ve met, but he doesn’t see that. And she shouldn’t have to show him in order to be respected because who the fuck is he?

She asked if she could go down for a drink. I told her yeah, sure, just avoid eye contact. Maybe smile once.

Didn’t even make it halfway through “American Idiot” on my iPod before I heard it.

Muffled voices. His, low and guttural like a boot in slurry. Hers, quieter. Fragile in a way she never is with me.

Then a beat of silence.

And footsteps. Quick ones.

She opens my door and she’s pale. Not crying. Not yet. But her mouth’s tight, lips all pressed together like she’s holding something back.

My headphones are out before she’s even fully in the room. I sit up on the bed, legs dangling off the side. “What did he say?”

She shrugs, staring at the posters on my wall like they’re more interesting than me. “Nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothing.”

She hesitates. Still not looking at me. Still twisting her sleeve like it owes her money. “Said I’ve nice legs. That I should use them to find a lad with a real future. Not one wasting away up here with… stupid love songs like a pussy.”

My blood goes cold.

I stand up, too fast, and the wooden bedframe creaks like it’s warning me not to. “He said that?”

“It’s fine, Patrick.”

“It’s not fine—”

“Don’t worry,” she says too quickly. “It’s grand. I’m grand. He’s your dad.”

“That doesn’t mean shit.”

“Doesn’t it?”

I open my mouth. Then close it. Then shove my hand through my hair because I don’t know what to say that won’t come out as a scream.

She’s looking down now, pulling at the thread on the corner of the duvet like it’s her only lifeline. And that does me in.

“That’s not—” My voice breaks. I kick the edge of the wardrobe, pain shooting through my ankle. “Fuck!”

“I know.”

I sit back down next to her and for a second we don’t say anything. The room smells like wood polish and incense I burned yesterday to cover up the cigarette smoke. There’s a stain on the carpet from where Hugh spilled Lucozade three years ago. Her shoe nudges against mine and I feel the smallest part of me come unstuck.

“I didn’t even invite anyone to my eighth birthday,” I say quietly. “Didn’t see the point. He made me spend it digging out nettles. Hugh came by later with a cake his ma made and my da told him sugar rotted your teeth and served steak, then proceeded to give me shit for being a vegetation.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just leans her head against my shoulder. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo.

“I hate him,” I murmur. “I wanted to keep this part of me away from you.”

I rest my cheek against her head and close my eyes. Outside, the cows are bawling and the wind whistles through the cracks in the window.

“I’m gonna leave one day,” I tell her. “Like—really leave. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll bartend in fucking Galway and work twelve hour shifts if I have to. I just gotta get out, {{user}}, fucking can’t live here.”