The Watchtower

I actually wish I could tell you my dad was an alcoholic, then I’d fit in better with more of the troubled kids at school. But my dad was a drug addict, mostly cocaine, but he dabbled in anything he could snort up his nose.

And addict is my word; my way of describing my father. He would argue in his bouts with mom that since his veins are clean and his family is still in tact that he couldn’t possibly have a serious problem. But serious is such a bullshit word. Falling asleep 30 seconds after putting your five year old daughter on your back to play horse is something I’d call serious. Waking your six year old daughter at three in the morning on a school night to look at the stars is something I’d call serious.

But that was Tommy, daddy, the hero, my hero, the one who made me beautiful. The scapegoat, the tip of the index, mover of everything according to all these school counsellors.

“Look at all those pretty stars, Treasure. Shining bright like your eyes on the day you were born.” My dad’s own eyes were dim, and he had this way of looking at you that felt like tragedy happening over and over again. He brushed his nose between every sentence. His tone was careful and deliberate.

“I think the stars are like eyes sweety. All of them staring down at us every night like endless rows of watchtowers.”

“What’s a watchtower?”

“A watchtower is a tall building with a big light that watches over the water and keeps everyone safe.”

“So stars keep everyone safe?”

“Stars make sure everyone follows their dream, Treasure. What’s your dream? What do you want to be more than anything when you grow up?”

“I want to be a star.”

The following is an excerpt from my soon to be published novel titled BEAUTY SCARS.

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