Overworld Chronicles Books 1-2: Sweet Blood of Mine & Dark Light of Mine by John Corwin Read Free Book Online
Authors: John Corwin
told you so , his green eyes seemed to say, and he was right. Drinking was no solution. It just led to more problems.
I went into the den. It was already late in the afternoon and Dad was just waking up. He looked as bad as I did: unshaven, bloodshot eyes, and breath that could kill a dog and bring it back to life as a zombie.
"What's wrong, son?" he asked.
"I messed up bad. I don't know what to do."
He nodded groggily. "I know how that feels." He went into the garage and grabbed some beer. I almost projectile vomited just looking at the bottle. He sighed and lifted the bottle to his lips. After his first swig, he looked at me like he wanted to say something. Instead, he trudged into the den. Only a loud fart or an ass scratch on his part could have perfectly capped off that father-son conversation.
I wasn't letting him off so easy. I followed him into the den and took a seat far enough away to avoid his breath. "Where's Mom?"
"Dealing with the Conroys."
"Who?"
His red-rimmed eyes widened for a moment. "Funeral stuff for Aunt Petunia."
"Is she the reason you and Mom have been fighting?"
He rubbed the sleep from his face and gave the wall a blank stare. "Yes."
"And now you plan to drink yourself into oblivion?"
After a long pause he spoke in a voice thick with emotion. "The great affliction known as life sometimes requires medication to ease the side effects." A long gulp of beer followed the statement.
"Yeah? Well alcohol doesn't work." The urge to slap the bottle out of his hand jerked me from my chair. I wanted to knock it from his hand and watch it smash to pieces. I wanted him to look at me and listen. A firestorm of anger blazed through me, growing so hot my body felt as though it would burst into flames. A sudden realization threw cold water on the flames. Nothing I did would stop him. It would only postpone the next drink by minutes. Mere words certainly wouldn't change his attitude. I stormed from the den feeling useless and unwanted. Slammed the door to my room shut behind me.
I used homework as a non-alcoholic crutch to keep my mind off the catastrophic condition of my social life while Captain Tibbs sat atop my computer desk, purring contentedly. A door slammed. I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past eleven. Keys jangled.
"David?" Mom said. A loud slap echoed through a stunned silence.
"Ouch," came Dad's reply.
"This won't solve anything. You'd better snap out of feeling sorry for yourself. I will not…" her voice lowered to an indistinct mumble I couldn't make out.
I slipped into some shorts and flicked the lights off before climbing into bed and acting like I was asleep. Mom usually checked in on me before she went to bed. Maybe if they thought I was conked out for the night they'd talk more freely about what was really going on.
Except I fell asleep and woke up late the next morning without any answers.
I jumped up from bed and went into the hallway. Mom and Dad's door hung open. The sounds of someone showering emanated from the bathroom. I went into the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal, staring at the trashcan overflowing with beer bottles. I cursed myself for falling asleep. Something was definitely going on with my parents. Usually they made me sick by kissing all the time and saying lovey-dovey stuff. Now they were making me sick with worry. I had to find out what in the world was going on. Captain Tibbs hopped onto the table and meowed. I gave him some milk and figured I'd also need to buy him some cat food so he wouldn't starve to death.
Dad emerged from his bedroom as I finished breakfast. His tired face looked almost inhuman. In fact his skin had a bluish hue and his eyes—usually a dark hazel like mine—looked pale as arctic glaciers. He zipped up a hoodie and made for the front door.
"Where are you going?"
He jumped a foot into the air and spun to face me. He apparently hadn't noticed I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself.
"I have to run an errand. I'll be back
I went into the den. It was already late in the afternoon and Dad was just waking up. He looked as bad as I did: unshaven, bloodshot eyes, and breath that could kill a dog and bring it back to life as a zombie.
"What's wrong, son?" he asked.
"I messed up bad. I don't know what to do."
He nodded groggily. "I know how that feels." He went into the garage and grabbed some beer. I almost projectile vomited just looking at the bottle. He sighed and lifted the bottle to his lips. After his first swig, he looked at me like he wanted to say something. Instead, he trudged into the den. Only a loud fart or an ass scratch on his part could have perfectly capped off that father-son conversation.
I wasn't letting him off so easy. I followed him into the den and took a seat far enough away to avoid his breath. "Where's Mom?"
"Dealing with the Conroys."
"Who?"
His red-rimmed eyes widened for a moment. "Funeral stuff for Aunt Petunia."
"Is she the reason you and Mom have been fighting?"
He rubbed the sleep from his face and gave the wall a blank stare. "Yes."
"And now you plan to drink yourself into oblivion?"
After a long pause he spoke in a voice thick with emotion. "The great affliction known as life sometimes requires medication to ease the side effects." A long gulp of beer followed the statement.
"Yeah? Well alcohol doesn't work." The urge to slap the bottle out of his hand jerked me from my chair. I wanted to knock it from his hand and watch it smash to pieces. I wanted him to look at me and listen. A firestorm of anger blazed through me, growing so hot my body felt as though it would burst into flames. A sudden realization threw cold water on the flames. Nothing I did would stop him. It would only postpone the next drink by minutes. Mere words certainly wouldn't change his attitude. I stormed from the den feeling useless and unwanted. Slammed the door to my room shut behind me.
I used homework as a non-alcoholic crutch to keep my mind off the catastrophic condition of my social life while Captain Tibbs sat atop my computer desk, purring contentedly. A door slammed. I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past eleven. Keys jangled.
"David?" Mom said. A loud slap echoed through a stunned silence.
"Ouch," came Dad's reply.
"This won't solve anything. You'd better snap out of feeling sorry for yourself. I will not…" her voice lowered to an indistinct mumble I couldn't make out.
I slipped into some shorts and flicked the lights off before climbing into bed and acting like I was asleep. Mom usually checked in on me before she went to bed. Maybe if they thought I was conked out for the night they'd talk more freely about what was really going on.
Except I fell asleep and woke up late the next morning without any answers.
I jumped up from bed and went into the hallway. Mom and Dad's door hung open. The sounds of someone showering emanated from the bathroom. I went into the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal, staring at the trashcan overflowing with beer bottles. I cursed myself for falling asleep. Something was definitely going on with my parents. Usually they made me sick by kissing all the time and saying lovey-dovey stuff. Now they were making me sick with worry. I had to find out what in the world was going on. Captain Tibbs hopped onto the table and meowed. I gave him some milk and figured I'd also need to buy him some cat food so he wouldn't starve to death.
Dad emerged from his bedroom as I finished breakfast. His tired face looked almost inhuman. In fact his skin had a bluish hue and his eyes—usually a dark hazel like mine—looked pale as arctic glaciers. He zipped up a hoodie and made for the front door.
"Where are you going?"
He jumped a foot into the air and spun to face me. He apparently hadn't noticed I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself.
"I have to run an errand. I'll be back
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