tomorrow comes today [One]

I don't remember my dad. I've tried plenty of times before to picture the shape of his face, curving of his brows, what colors his eyes were, if he was tall or short. But i can't. i can however remember his voice. It's an audio memory. The only thing I know about him. His voice is clear as a crystal. Dad's voice was deep and hoarse-kind of like those military drill Sargent's with their buzz cuts, flexible muscles, tall towers in uniforms. Sometimes I sued to wonder if dad was ever in the military. He sounds like he could have been. I only her him in my dreams. Sometimes his tone is grim and sharp like a sirens wail. Sometimes their soft and gentle. As strange as it may sound, when his voice is gentle it feels like the words are tickling me just as his hand would. And I can feel myself smiling in my sleep, almost laughing. It's not often I dream of his voice. When I do i forget my anxiety, all my worries, the fear of the end that people constantly  talk about. It washes it away. Kind of like how paint cleans away graffiti. Or maybe that's a really bad example. 1

I know mom has pictures of him somewhere. She has them hidden in some secret case, buried somewhere around the house. I cannot find it. I've looked everywhere. I used to ask mom about dad all the time. Whenever I did she'd sigh deeply, a half-sad half-angry look on her face, speck of a tear drop shining in the corner of her eye, shaking her head. I don't know why this always made her cry. Okay-maybe I do a little bit.2

'Lost man,' she'd reply silently so it sounded like a whisper. 'Lost man. Wanderer. Dark.....' her voice would fall the last word hanging in the air. She'd resume whatever she was doing, which was usually laying back in the old raggedy la-z-boy chair that had food stains and cigarette burns all over it. She wasn't giving me the information I wanted. So I kept nagging her. Her answer was continuously the same. One night she came home drunk and it occurred to me that this was the perfect way I could steal what I desperately wanted to know from her. Intoxicated people tend to say things they don't mean. I didn't know why I hadn't thought of this before.3

It was late-about three in the morning. The sky was a blueish gray as if someone, God maybe, painted it. Moon was pitch black. I'd never seen it so dark before. It didn't even look real. Like some kid cut it out of construction paper and glued it there or a huge round lump of clay. One thing is for sure, as pseudo as it appeared it was eerie. The color of the sky gave it a haunting atmosphere. Like werewolves would start howling at the moon or vampires raising from their battered coffins, lurking the grounds for human flesh. At that time I was terrified of vampires and werewolves, now they're an obsession.  We lived in a small house in a dead end area of our street. Our house was located in what what's called the boonies because it was surround by so many trees and the ground was blanketed with mossy leaves. You wouldn't know a house was even there unless you saw the crooked clown fish mailbox leaning on its left side behind the only remaining part of our metal fence.4

The tress pretty much eliminated all lights because of the leaves and how long the branches were, the blocked the sun. Looking up between the leaves you saw bits of sunlight. I always kept a flashlight in my pocket, even in the daytime I used it. It just got to creepy. But I'm over that now. That morning it was really chilly. Frost covered our cracked windows, cold air seeping in making the house a frozen ice box. The floor was cold, the door knobs were cold, even the walls were icy. I couldn't sleep that night. Sh-t I could never sleep whenever mom was gone for a long period. I'd get worried, dellusional thoughts entering my head, like someone jumping out of nowhere attacking her or some nasty hairy man slipping a roofie in her drink and raping her or being ran over by a car because she stepped onto the road, tipsy. Or she dropped dead from an overdose. I'd get really paranoid. I tried shoving the thoughts out of my head, the voices, down the drain in my head where all those thoughts go but I couldn't. I'd dwell on it until I went insane. I started biting on my hand which resulted in my skin peeling, hardening later, turning this brownish yellow color. The color of infected urine.5

I slipped on a pair of socks, wrapping my quilt around my skinny body, ambling towards the frosty window in the kitchen. The house felt bare. No appliances or furniture. Just floor and walls. I couldn't even hear my sisters occasional snoring. She snored like a pig or an alarm clock with a really loud buzz that was stuck between the walls of her throat. I sat in a wobbly green chair, the paint was mostly scratched off, pushing it towards the window.6

I had a dream about dad that night too. I think I almost saw what he looked like. The images were blurry and confusing and I didn't understand it.7

The window looked like it was covered in shards of crystal instead of frost. I took my finger, cutting through the ice drawing sticks people and animals. It was foggy outside. It looked like smoke. That's when I saw mom ascending up the lumpy hill leading to our decayed house, stumbling backwards and forwards. I dashed away from the window, leaving the quilt on the floor, standing in the hall  next to the door. It creak open, mom stepping inside, stoned. The door closed by itself, mom reclining against it, covering her gray face with her hand, sniffing. Her coat hung off her shoulders, purse tied to her wrist like a handcuff. Her skirt was on inside out and the red shirt she was wearing was half zipped. I could see marks on her chest and her lingerie bra. I stood there next to the broken coat rack, not even sure if I was breathing, waiting for her to speak. She hadn't even noticed me yet. I was thankful, yet again, she was home safe. I don't know why the hell I worried about her so much. She treated me like sh-t most of the time. 8

Cold air blew past us and my shoulders shivered. When she finally looked at me, she smiled sadly, moving off the door slowly wobbling to the kitchen. I followed. She went to the fridge taking out a carton of juice guzzling the whole thing like alcohol, the nectar trickling down her lips to her neck, sliding between her breast. I shouldn't have notice such things as that but I did. She threw the cartoon in the sink, flopping down in a chair, dumping her head in her hands. I stood across the table from here, waiting for the words to escape. Her curly brown hair fell over her hands like a curtain. I  wanted to go over there and brush it away so I could see her hands. I didn't think about timing, waiting when to tell her. I just blurted it out.9

'Mom?' I stuttered.10

It was getting chiller. My teeth began to chatter. I picked up the quilt and wrapped it around me. She sighed, sniffling, laying her hands down on the table Her curls fell in front of her face.11

'What Malachi?' She slurred, wiggling in her chair. 12

'I-I had another dream about...dad.' I spoke feebly. My throat felt dry and raw, like I'd swallowed sand or ash. I started shaking underneath the quilt. Mom stared at me blankly, in a funny drunk way, her eyes large like a Does.13

'Who?' she finally said.14

I swallowed six times before I spoke again.15

'Dad.'16

She frowned, poking out her bottom lip. It made her look like a little kid. A part of me wanted to laugh but I held it in.17

'So?' She shrugged her shoulders. actually they kind of rolled back like boat oars or bicycle pedals. I didn't let it bother me that she was being harsh.18

'Tell me about him.' I insisted. A part of me felt like it was a bad time to ask, considering that she was drunk and looked pissed about something. But I didn't care either. She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. She snorted a laugh, covering her nose when blood started to drip. It feel on the table like rain drops. She looked at her bloody fingers then back at me.19

'Tell me about dad.' she mimicked, playing with the zipper on her shirt. I stared at her, blinking. She sniffed, wiping the blood with her shirt collar.20

'Why do you care so much?' she said 'Itz zon't madder!! He ain't comdin' back're.'21

I Knew that. I've always known that. But I just wanted to know what he looked like. Match that voice with his face to see if it fit. His characteristics- a word I learned in English meaning personality. Probably the most dumbest thing to want to know about a person but I was curious. Mom never gave me much to go off of.22

I know,' I said offensivly. I don't know why I sounded offended. ' I just wanted to kn-'23

Mom cut me off with her drunk laugh. One of her front tooths were chipped and a litte brown.24

'Stop giving a fu-k Malachi. He ain't comdin' back antz I ain't tellin you sh-t. So shut the hell up and fu-k off.'25

She sniffed again, wiping the blood that kept spilling away, smudging it all over her face and arms. I stared down at the chipped table, trying not to cry. Bad idea. This was a bad idea. I stared at the window where I'd drawn the stick people. They were covered with frost. I could see a hand, a leg, and part of the clothes. The only thing not covered was the small dog i drew with his little dog bone in his mouth. I slowly turned around, heading back towards my room.26

'If you really wanna knowz what yo daddeh looks likes-looks in da mirror. I swear you looks just likes that motherfu-ker.'27

I looked over my shoulder back at her. She was staring out the window, pinching her nose, trying to stop the blood from flowing. In the hall I stopped in front of the dirty oval mirror hanging by a photo of my sister and me at the beach to look at myself. I stared at me for a long time, searching for my dad. I couldn't find him. I couldn't. I crawled under the sheets crying. But there were no tears. Just dry heaving gasping sounds like I was an injured animal on the road. I never asked her again after that.28