I Lied

I lied, sprawled out across the crap-encrusted carpet of my empty house, my sweat-spangled back soaking up more debris than the old Dyson in the cupboard had over the past six months, I should have let Bec take it; she did say that I’d never use the thing.

Panning my vision around the pig stye of a living room that had become my sanctuary, my eyes stopped at the kitchen, I exhaled and chuckled to myself, relieved when I could confirm that the smell of death I’d been investigating all night wasn’t just coming from my armpits. Sat on the breakfast-bar was my half-eaten lunch from Wednesday, or was it Thursday? I couldn’t tell you. It was Mongolian Beef from the Chinese shop. Liv had her twelfth birthday there last year, she’d always loved those prawn crackers they do; she’d devour a whole plate of ‘em, the funny bugger.

I forced my eyes downwards, furrowing my leather forehead, trying to make sure I could still wiggle my toes without having to bother hoisting my head off the floor. My body felt heavy and cold and lifeless, like a sack of concrete, a smelly, hairy, sack of concrete. It always felt that way after a bender.


I listened as the neighbours shuffled out of their houses and into their cars, leaving the weekend behind and driving towards Monday’s responsibilities. I wondered how Ben was going on his L plates, how his mum was going teaching him to drive stick. I began to count in my head the months and days until the big red P’s were up for grabs. By then I’d have gotten some cash sorted, help set the boy up with his first wheels, I presumed, quietly.

The huffing and puffing of joggers on the footpath heaved my body on to its side, the recovery position, I’d be there for a while. I liked to watch the guys run, the oldies who’d wear those bright blue visors and short shorts. Not being weird, I just liked they looked alive. My littlest one phoned me about his primary school athletics carnival a couple of months back, told me about his mates dads who’d come out to chaperone, blow the whistles, cook up the sausage sizzles, run the stopwatches; that type of thing. I let him know I’d be around come the next one, I’d do my famous barbie’d onions and everything.

The barren, crumpled tinfoil beside my head glared at me through the reflection of the mornings sun. I glared back. How could something so small have so much control over me? I riddled myself for the fiftieth fucking time. I am a sick man with the stuff and a sick man without it. I’ve got a knife down my throat, and I like the taste of my own blood. How could it give me everything and take my life away?

“This is why I don’t do sobriety” I murmured, still staring at my tinfoil frenemy, itching at the irritatingly depressing sound of my conscious mind. It was in times like these I was forced to ask myself how on earth I could have fucked up so bad. The empty single beds upstairs, the uneaten school-snacks rotting in the pantry, the dusty pictures on the walls of my kids, the woman I love and a man I can no longer even recognise. They all haunt me. And remind me of what a greedy bastard I must be. When they were younger I promised Bec that I’d put the kids first. I promised her that I’d be their dad. I lied.