Shit. What was that? I hope it wasn’t…
A drunken voice: Cynthy! Wherareya?
Cynthia frowned and put down the cooking spoon she was using.
Her (to herself): Why is he early? (to me): Don’t move, just watch the chicken. (she walked into the other room, I listened, trying to discern what was happening): What is it da-
She stopped mid-sentence. Her voice suddenly turned ice-cold.
Cynthia: Get out of here.
A high-pitched whiny voice: That’s no way to speak to your father.
Cynthia: I wasn’t talking to him, bitch. Get out.
Her dad: Cyn-
He stopped and there was a sickening retching sound.
Cynthia: That’s it, get out Blondie!
‘Blondie’ started complaining again.
Cynthia: I said GET OUT !
There was a wimpy high-pitched scream followed by the slam of a door. Another retching sound ensued.
Cynthia (tiredly): Come on, Dad, let’s get you to the bathroom.
I could hear her supporting him into the bathroom. She came into the kitchen again, grabbed the mop, and left.
There was pain written all over her face.