It was like the center of the living room had a spotlight on it. I crouched behind the comfort of the couch, entranced by the revolted rage of my mother. Her eyes glowed red; they were angry rubies glaring at the man who stood before her.

He yelled back at her, and as he did, fear came to knock on the door to the chambers of my heart. If he pulled any harder on my heartstrings, I was sure they would break, and the walls would all come crashing down, leaving me more vulnerable than ever. My father’s face was an over-ripe tomato, shaking with anguish, though I did not know if it was from anger or from the influence of the contents of the half-empty bottle in his hand. It was a pretty ugly sight to see, I thought wryly to myself as an afterthought. Guiltily, I half-wished that my mother would blow up, exposing what she was filled to the brim with.

“Clara!”

Why was I being forced into the crossfire? I was only a spectator watching the phenomenon; I wanted no part in this bullfight.

And then, quietly, “Choose.”

Even if I didn’t answer them, the decision battled itself in my mind. I knew what the one-word command meant. Blood burned in my throat and the traitorous tears that I had been barricading back strained to erupt. I didn’t want to choose between the two fuming people who stood before me, trembling, quiet for once, anxious for my response.

“I-I-I can’t.” My words barely escaped. I was struggling to control the waterfall inside my tear ducts. “I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

My mother looked disappointed and defeated, but in my father’s eyes I saw relief flash across, as if he knew what the outcome would’ve been if I had made a choice. My parents avoided each other’s gazes, not wanting to read the other’s body language. I was glad for the silence, but there was a tension hanging over all of our heads, just waiting to drop the storm.

“Go get groceries for dinner.” My mother averted her gaze from mine, instead glaring daggers at my father.

I gulped and nodded, then left the room. My mom’s patience was waning, like a storm eye shrinking, leaving my father with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the churning storm. As if I had pressed the play button, the arguing resumed on cue. The storm clouds began their angry assault on the room, and my heart.

I grabbed my bag, took a moment to collect my shuddering breaths, wiped my eyes, and left.

The supermarket was mostly empty when I trudged in. Soft blues drifted through the aisles, mimicking my mood. I reached for garlic, cilantro, celery, all the vegetables that my mom usually wanted, and then everything else I needed for the meal, and then moved onto the fruit section. My hand faltered over the overly-happy and bright mangoes. I bit my lip, trying to bite back the memories of my father from before. Before the bad. When my father, the loving, laughing man, walked through the front door juggling mangoes. Before the bad, when he cracked open a can of mango and guava juice and said “cheers”, with that twinkling smile in his eyes. Before the bad, when my father was a father, not an alcoholic.

I discarded the idea of the mangoes and quickly paid for the rest of my items, avoiding the questioning gaze of the cashier. It wasn’t a long walk home, but I wasn’t eager to return to the battlefield. I dragged my feet under the gray of the sky, which seemed to be just barely holding back. It felt like the entire world was holding its breath to see what was going to happen once I got back home. It was fitting weather for today’s events, but I quickened my pace just in case the cumulonimbus clouds decided that they didn’t want to wait any longer.

The silence almost choked me as I stepped through the threshold, the quiet playing field that was once alive with noises. My airways were blocked with dread and the grocery bags mutated into concrete blocks, heavy enough to bring me to my knees when I reached the living room. In front of me was a crumpled figure, still and pale. If I hadn’t heard the soft sigh when I approached, I would’ve thought she was dead.

She turned, looked me in the eyes. Hers were bloodshot and wild, like those of a rabid animal. Those eyes told me what had happened after I had left for the store. I looked around the room, my sight blurring with tears. Dad’s bottle lay in shards, reflecting the stains beneath. Dad’s favorite mug that always sat on the coffee table for the Saturday Night show, gone. Dad’s certificate from his old job, smashed on the ground. Every memory of my father was splintered in pieces on the ground or long gone out the door. I realized that the good old father I once knew had been gone for a long time already.

My mother clutched my leg and pulled me close. Her tears drenched her shirt and traced lines down her cheeks. I couldn’t stop myself from melting into the tragedy that was wearing down my mom, couldn’t tell if the tears were my mother’s or my own, or both.

I wasn’t sure how long I laid there, curled in a fetal position, trying to think about anything else but my father, trying not to think at all. But wherever I looked, my father’s presence lingered, both the good guy and the bad version. I could see him sitting on the couch with the grave news of being laid off. I could see him standing on the porch in the waning light of day, holding what had to be his fourth bottle by then. I could see his silhouette cast on the wall as he sunk down, falling into the state he would be in forevermore. I could see him everywhere, and yet he was gone.