Standing across the table (there were no chairs in the house) was my father, Emilo. The table itself was a sturdy rosewood, and one of the last items in the home. We had sold our belongings after mother had died -- my father said it was to help pay for school. We had each kept one tattered shirt and one nice shirt which I would wear to class every other day (we were shirtless in this moment, no need to sweat in clothes unnecessarily). We had one pair of jeans each - both tattered and mended with old quilts taken from the tailor's trash can. We also kept three of mom's blouses - one for me, one for father, and one for her. We were close to pawning hers, though. On the table, near my father (and, away from me) was my semester's grades and a polished bottle of amber liquor. His skinny arm swung across the table, smashing the bottle of gasoline-smelling alcohol against the bareness of the dry, wood wall. The liquid seeped into the pores of that portion of our home leaving a dripping stain. It never really dried. Two weeks and three days later, my father would flick the ashy edge of a cigarette **** into the wall. He was too drunk to know he wasn't in Hell.