My Cardboard Balcony

Putting Out A Fire by Belinda Roddie During a particularly bad argument with my brother, my drunken father thought it'd be a good idea to douse my receding hairline with very, very sticky liqueur. The booze lingered so harshly, and the aroma hovered so aggressively, that I nearly choked on my own vomit while hobbling to the bathroom to wash my head. He never apologized for it. Most fathers don't like apologizing. And my brother never took back the awful barbs he buried in my spine, the reason I felt the skin in my neck tighten into spirals and my tongue spin out of control like a flailing thread from a spool. Brothers like to bronze the pain for safekeeping. Somehow, I hope he realizes there's no value in hating my inner tattoo.

The conversation had been completely derailed by the appearance of Shawn's very intoxicated cousin, who barreled into the kitchen at a very odd speed, considering she was moving on her knees and not on her feet. Perhaps she was trying to be a dwarf from the Hobbit movie, I thought, only to have my theory confirmed when she pulled herself into a chair, her tankard splashing ale on the floor. "I come to claim my stolen gold!" she roared, burping loudly.