I heard a banging from down the steps like the slamming of a door. Shit.

I hadnt heard the car pull in. The only light in the bedroom came from the video game screen to which my eyes had been glued for the past three hours or so. I untangled my legs from the bedclothes and glanced at the digital clock on my bedside table. 12:31. He had been drinking. Again. He stumbled up the stairs. My first instinct would be to close the door in a small attempt to protect myself from the impact I was bracing myself for. But I knew that wouldnt do much good. I would also be drawing attention to myself. Maybe if he forgot about me, he would just go to sleep and leave me alone. Yeah, fat chance. I stood near my doorway, with the door open only a crack; just enough for me to see him staggering up the last few steps, using the rail to support almost all him weight. Please dont look this way; please dont look this way Dammit. GEORGE RYAN ROSS! I cringed, bracing myself. WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING AWAKE!? He was slurring his words. ITS NEARLY THREE IN THE MORNING! Its half past midnight, dad. I said quietly. YOU MOUTHING ME, BOY? No, dad. I kept my head down, desperately avoiding that crazed look in his eyes which I had seen only too often. YOU DAMN TEENAGERS THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING! I squeezed my eyes shut, as if this could block out the pain as well. I could feel my feet rise off the carpet as I was picked up by the shirt and slammed against the wall. My head rolled to one side in a defeated sort of way. I wasnt going to fight him. I never did. This wasnt him. It was the alcohol doing this. Maybe if I kept telling myself that, eventually I might start believing it.