𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶:
𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙰𝙱𝚄𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳𝚂 𝙰𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳. 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙺.
-----------------------------------------------------------

"Youse let 'er go?" Tom's supplier growled through the device, his voice low and surly.

"Lo siento, señor. That bitch-"
(I'm sorry, sir.)

"Me don't care, Kelley," the supplier interrupted, his words harsh and unforgiving, "She got ya dead bang right. If dat chick went to da cops, ye ass'll be going in clink."

"The cops won't find the body, señor. I made sure of it," Tom replied, with hopes of appeasing him.

"But youse couldn't use yer gat on da chick, could ya? Ya let 'er go," he mocked. "Find 'er Kelley, or da boss ain't be happy."

"No, por favor. No la jefe de la mafia," he begged, "I will kill the girl. I won't let her escape again."
(No, please. Not the mob boss.)

"Then do it!"

With that, the line went dead, leaving Tom to contemplate his further course of action.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Mara stood in her tiny, under-stocked kitchen, the fire from the stove warmed her to her bones as she stirred the watery cabbage soup, garnished with measly and insipid pieces of meat. The food wasn't great or filling but she didn't have much of an appetite in the first place.

Most of the times, Mara avoided cooking at home, they couldn't afford much of the food or gas anyway. She usually ate leftovers from Auntie Bo's, the diner she worked in. Sometime she visited a soup kitchen nearby, a place she had frequented and even volunteered at, while in school. Its nutritious meals were the only thing that had kept her sustained during those long, strenuous hours on the track field.

She was still exhausted from the events of the previous day. She hadn't gotten much sleep, vivid nightmares keeping her awake. Her neighbour's 3.a.m-urge to blast rock music hadn't helped either. Atleast, the raucous beats had distracted her from the images her mind replayed incessantly, notwithstanding the head splitting ache she had then developed.

Her eyes had now sunk into her sockets, dark ringed and shadowed. Her head still throbbed due to lack of rest.

She had once again called her boss, asking for a day off. He had relented, partially as she genuinely sounded tired and also because she had never taken a day off in all those years she had worked there. She never had or found a reason, good enough, to take time off work. She hated sitting idle when sick, not that she had seriously fallen ill since a long, long time. Secondly, she had no friends or family, atleast not one who cared for her, to spend time and enjoy with. On the other hand, she desperately needed the money the job offered and couldn't afford the loss of even a single day's pay.

Every penny lost is a penny gone, she often reminded herself.

Her father was no longer slumped infront of the house. Long before Mara had awaken, he had regained his sentience and dragged himself to his room. Habitually, he did not find the need to show the courtesy of cleaning the filth he had made. The stench of booze and puke had intensified her headache and with great pains she was able to clean the luridly ocherous muck covering the bare floor.

She often returned from work to find the apartment in that very nauseating state, even worse at times. Till date, they have had countless dissensions on the same as well. Mara repeatedly demanding him to quite his dipsomaniac ways. Telling him how bad it was for his illness. How his drunken fights would get themselves evicted, had nearly gotten themselves thrown from the place that had sheltered them for so long.

Where would they go then?

But, her father paid no heed.

He never did. He kept on imbibing the numbing yet noxious liquid, claiming how therapeutic it was. Naturally he failed to realise how the amber gleams of malted whiskey slowly euchred him out of life.

After drinking himself to a stupor, he would lay in some kerb or gangway, and if lucky, would find himself home, ultimately passing out, surrounded by the putrid stench.

He had once landed himself in a vicious drunken brawl. Nursing a few glasses of cheap spirit, he had punched his compeer, who was as high spirited as her father. At the end, the police was summoned and they hauled both the inebriated bufoons to jail. Obviously, at the mere age of seventeen, she was unaware of the happenings, having been in school during the unfortunate event. When her father didn't return home for more than thirty-six hours, her anxious young self ran to the police, in hopes of filing a missing report for her father. To her horror, the cops informed her of her father's shenanigans.

Thirty days later, her father, then free, once again succumbed to his vice, his swollen and bruised face not deterring him for once. Like before, his drunken accidents prevailed.

"What are you doing here?" a slurred voice asked.

She turned around to face her father. His sallow, pitted skin was drawn tightly across the bones of his face. He looked haggard and unkempt, hardly staid or sober.

"Don't you have work?"

"I took a leave, today. I don't feel well," she replied, bracing herself for his berating.

"You took a leave?" He raised an eyebrow, looking at her cynically.

"Yes. My head hurts and-"

"They kicked you out, didn't they? You foolish, ungrateful girl! You couldn't even hold one job, could you?" he spat. "Just like your mother. Useless and of no good."

She winced.

He had started one of his rants. Long sermons where he reminded her how he wished she wasn't born. How easy it could have been without her and how much she owed him for all the troubles she caused him since birth. He would then start the name-calling, his words laced with venom and anger. In short, her father's rants were long, exhausting but commonplace. Used to those sporadic outbursts on her father's behalf, she didn't even bat an eye when those occurred, no matter how frequently.

But, those rare mentions of her mother cut like glass. The mother that had abandoned her, left her to fend for herself, with a father who could hardly hold his drink. Thankfully, mentions of the woman were rare in the household. Her father detested her birth-giver just as much as she did.

"Get back to work, child. No one gets a meal for free!" He said finally, looking at the simmering broth on the stove with utmost disgust.

Mara kept her head down, biting back a reply. She knew it was best to keep quiet. Answering back always worsened the situation.

He would leave for work anyway, she thought. Whatever it is that he did.

Her father had previously worked as a construction worker. Four years ago, chronic pain and muscle spasms rendered him unable to undertake the manual labour his profession demanded. He was then diagnosed with fibromyalgia, an incurable rheumatic condition. The meds had reduced his severe pains to a dull ache, however there was no going back to the old days.

Alcohol helped when the meds did not, numbing him enough to offer relieve. The disease that had practically left him invalid, had become another excuse to chug more pitchers of spirit, to help him forget the devastation of his destructive marriage.

She did not know where her father worked now, or how he came to pay for all the booze he managed to drown in. No matter how much she asked, his only reply was an angry growl, asking her to mind her own business. For all she knew, he did nothing, lurching from one wall to another.

Mara was about to saunter to her room when she saw her father pull out a rather expensive looking Stygian-leather wallet from his lower pocket, a huge contrast from the tattered, cheap wallet he used. His begrimed fingers barely touched the neatly tucked teal notes of the bulky wallet, as if anxious of soiling them.

How could he find a full wallet in the slums of Westside? she wondered.

"Dad, where did you get that from?" Mara asked out of sheer curiosity.

He closed the wallet with a snap and glowered at her.
"None of your business!" he snarled.

"Dad-"

"Leave me alone, child!" he snapped.

Mara sighed.
"Are you planning on taking this to the police?" she questioned.

He looked at her incredulously. "Why would I do that? Do you realise how much rent this could cover?"

"But you're not going to use this on rent! You'll waste it all on beer!" she accused.

"You don't get to dictate what I do with my money! It's my money, I'll do whatever I want!"

"But it's not your money," she replied, trying hard to not raise her voice. "It's not yours to waste. It's someone else's hard earned-"

"Dammit!" he shouted, banging his right fist on the wall. The loud thud made her grimace.

"Listen, girl," he said, pointing an angry finger at her, "Don't you dare think you can order me around. Noone gets to tell me what I can or can't do. Not you, nor the bitch you call your mother!"

He then stormed out of the door, on his way to repeat the same cycle of gluttony and shame.
-----------------------------------------------------------
𝙶𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢:

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎- 𝙰 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 "𝚢𝚘𝚞"

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚐- 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍.

𝙲𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔- 𝚓𝚊𝚒𝚕

𝙶𝚊𝚝- 𝚐𝚞𝚗
-----------------------------------------------------------
How did you find the use of local slangs? Did they fit the tone of the story? Were they funny?(I hope not.) Were they weird?(Again, I hope not.) Or did you think something else?

And what are your views on Mara and her dad's relationship? To what extent do you think toxic parents affect their children's life?

Did I do wrong keeping this chapter so long?

Do tell me in the comments, I'd love to hear.
-----------------------------------------------------------