You wake up in the hospital, blind. You begin to gasp, terrified at your loss of vision. You hear your father’s voice.
“Of course you wouldn’t die. You never follow through with anything,” he says, obviously annoyed. If you weren’t blind you’re sure you’d see him shaking his head in disappointment.
“Oh, stop it, Herb!” your mother chides.
“What, Margaret? He doesn’t!”
You feel your mother’s hand slide over yours, squeezing, trying to soothe you.
“How do you feel, dear?”
You try to say I’d feel better if dad wasn’t constantly berating me like always. You actually say “Mmrgf.”
“Oh, right, the doctors said you may have some decreased motor function for a while. Something about the stuff you drank.”
“Prrrbt?” you ask.
Your father cuts in. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you drink a gallon of wiper fluid, numb-nuts. Jesus, if you’d had half a brain you’d know to drink gasoline or at least bleach.”
“Herb!” Your mother shouts.
“No, Margaret, this has gone on for too long and while he’s laying in this hospital bed hooked upto machines getting treated by nurses- all of which is coming out of my pocket, I might add- he’s gonna listen to me. You fucked up good this time, kiddo. I don’t know what was so hard about getting a job, but you managed to even screw up killing yourself to get out of it. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Frrrr,” you growl. You tell him.
“Well, that’s just fine. You better learn to make some calls from this hospital bed, because when you get released you’re sure as hell not coming home with us. The basement is for storage only from now on!” You hear a chair scraping and quick footsteps leaving the room. Guess you won’t have to deal with dad anymore today.
“I’ll talk to him, dear,” your mother says calmly, “you just get some rest.”
You could have sworn that bottle you drank was antifreeze. Maybe you should have helped dad with the car more, then you wouldn’t have to help him with the car anymore.