Hard to Break

Shit.

I start ru

“Tazen,” I cry out.

He’s already behind me. “Shit.”

“He’s not breathing, what … what do I do?”

“Call an ambulance. Now.”

I push back tears ru

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“My dad,” I squeak. “He’s not breathing. He’s had too much to drink, but he’s not breathing.”

“Stay calm, ma’am, I’ll send someone right over. What is your address?”

I give it to her and she assures me that someone is on their way. I drop the phone and turn back to Tazen just in time to see my father vomit across the floor. I stare at Tazen who’s kneeling over my dad, finishing a chest compression. I drop to my knees on the floor, pain ripping through my heart as Dad starts wheezing and coughing. Tazen turns him on his side, tilting his head the right way so he can’t choke.

Dad coughs and splutters and Tazen holds him firmly, even when he starts squirming and crying out.

“Stay still. The ambulance is coming,” Tazen orders firmly.

Five minutes later, the paramedics arrive and lift my dad onto a stretcher. One of them is asking me questions, but I’m numb. Tazen answers them for me and then they inform him which hospital they’ll be taking him to. Tazen nods and we both watch them carry him off. When they’re gone, I start rushing to my room to get some things. I need to get to the hospital.

“Your dad is an alcoholic.”

It’s not a question, but it still slams into my heart like a knife being driven in.

“You didn’t tell me.”

Again, not a question.

“I have to get to the hospital,” I say frantically.

“Qui

I don’t, I throw open my drawers and start pulling out something clean to wear.

“Qui

He takes my hand and I spin around, tears pouring down my cheeks. Tazen’s face is soft as he steps forward and takes me into his arms. “It’s all right, he’s going to be fine. We got here in time, and he’s going to be okay.”

“It’s all my fault,” I cry. “I shouldn’t have gone away for a night. I left him. It’s my fault.”

Tazen flinches.

“Qui

“I’m all he has,” I yell, pushing out of his arms.

“Qui

“Take me to the hospital, Tazen,” I say, my voice numb. “Take me … please?”

He sighs. “Yeah, come on.”

I walk out to his car, not even noticing the distance to get to it.

I left him alone. I left him and he could have died.

This is all my fault.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We’re at the hospital for the entire day as they pump Dad’s stomach. Then Tazen takes us home. He wants to stay, but I just need time to process. I tell him I’ll call him and he doesn’t argue. He just kisses me softly and tells me he’ll call. This isn’t his fault, but I can’t focus on anything else right now. I get Dad into his bed. Then I find a spot on the lounge and just sit, staring at nothing, too scared to sleep in case he gets sick again.

I’m tired of living this life, tired of being unable to feel okay or free because of my father and his alcoholic ways. It’s hurting me and it’s hurting him. I’m drowning in guilt, but I’m afraid to leave him to his own devices because he’ll end up dead. A part of me has had enough. I just want to get up and leave. I don’t want to be his caretaker for the rest of my life. I know he needs help, but I don’t know how to get him to accept help. For years I’ve begged and pleaded with him about it, but it’s done no good. He has to choose sobriety for himself, and until he does, all my arguments mean nothing to him.

It seems like there’s just no way out.

I close my eyes and start sinking into an exhausted sleep, when I hear the crashing sounds coming from my father’s room. I push to my feet quickly and rush towards it, only to see him throwing things around. He stops after a minute and clutches his head, then he starts destroying his room again.

“Dad,” I yell, rushing in. “What are you doing?”

He spins to me and his eyes are bloodshot. “My head is pounding. Where’s my alcohol, Qui

“Dad, you nearly died today.”

He glares at me. “I was fine. Where’s my alcohol?”

My heart falls to pieces. “I got rid of it. You have to stop this.”

“That’s not up to you to decide,” he roars so loudly I flinch.

I take a weary step back as he spins and starts kicking things over again. He drops to his knees near his bedside table and jerks the drawer out. Then he reaches in and pulls out a bottle of whiskey that had been hidden there.

“Dad,” I say, coming closer. “You need to stop.”

He unscrews it with shaky, desperate hands. Then he tips his head back and starts swallowing it. My heart cracks wide open now, and pain lashes my body.

“Dad!” I cry, rushing towards him.

He spins on me, glaring. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Qui

“No,” I yell. “This is our house. What you’re doing is dangerous and you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Stop telling me what to fucking do!” he roars.

Fear fills my veins. I’ve never seen him like this before. Never. He’s scaring me. I take a hesitant step forward.

“Dad, please, give me the bottle.”

“Will you just get the fuck out?” he barks.

“Dad, you have to stop this. Now.”

His eyes point daggers in my direction. “Who died and made you my fucking mother?”

That hurts. My mom died and made me his fucking mother, because he refuses to take care of himself.

“Mom died,” I whisper. “And instead of taking care of me the way you should, you turned to the bottle. I’m tired of it, Dad. I don’t want to have to do this.”

“Then don’t,” he barks, standing straighter and glaring at me. “Move out, Qui

Ouch, that hurts like hell. It hurts so bad a pained noise is ripped from my throat.

“You’d die without me here,” I whisper because my voice is too shaky to work.

He snorts and laughs loudly. “You’re so sure of that, then get out.”

I shake my head, blinking back my tears. “We’ll talk about this when you’re not so angry. Give me the bottle and get some sleep.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he roars again. He’s never yelled at me like this before.

“Dad,” I try again. “You need to put that bottle down and go to bed.”

“Fuck you, Qui

“Dad,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re done for the night.”

He spins and snarls at me, “No, I’m not.”

“You are!”

Before I know what’s happening he’s raising his arm and roaring, “No, I’m fucking not. Get off my back!”

Then he launches the bottle across the room at me. I don’t have time to duck and it hits me in the temple. I cry out in pain and stumble backwards as it smashes all over the floor. Whiskey sprays up my body and blood trickles down my head. I stumble a few steps and then a burning pain shoots through my foot and I scream. I glance down to see blood gushing out onto the carpet. I stepped on the bottle.

I manage to pull myself away from the glass, but my heart is tearing into a thousand tiny pieces. I look up with tears ru