The day my father told me that we had to move out because we couldn't afford to live there anymore, was the worst day of my live.
It was the day my mother killed herself,
in bloom.
So not only did we lose one person, but two.
I saw my father turn to drink.
It was his new favorite hobby.
The kids would laugh at me when I turned up with uniform that was creased all over, because we didn't own an iron.
I came to school with blue lips rather than red,
because we couldn't afford to be warm.
I heard my father cry at night.
He started to bring his friends into the house when I was asleep,
and I'd always wake up to his limp body on the couch with syringes and beer bottles dotted everywhere.
Things started to turn nasty after that.
When my father would infect his blood with harsh chemicals, his friends would come into my room at night and hurt me.
I didn't see how he could ever call them friends.