Luciano's Obsession

I used to think that if I closed my eyes long enough, I could escape the weight of the life I had no control over. The constant thrum of fear in my chest, the suffocating sense of helplessness that clung to me like a second skin. When you live in a house like mine, with walls that bear the weight of mistakes too numerous to count, there's no such thing as escape.

I woke up to the dull murmur of the city outside, the sounds of cars and distant voices filtering through the thin walls. The morning light creeps through the cracks in the blinds, bathing my small room in pale, indifferent sunlight. The coffee maker gurgles in the corner of the kitchen, and an alarm clock beeped beside my bed. I already know what time it is without looking at the clock.

The man I live with is still asleep. His loud, guttural snores echoed through the thin walls of the tiny apartment, slurring with the remnants of whatever drink he had last night.

I slip out of bed, my feet cold on the wooden floor. I glance toward the couch, where he's sprawled out, clutching an empty bottle. His snoring is punctuated by occasional grunts, a grotesque reminder of the chaos he's created for himself and me.

Dad, I think to myself bitterly. Always such a disappointment.

He's not always been like this-selfish, reckless, and always looking for a way to crawl out of the hole he's dug. He became this way when my mum died nine years ago, I was ten at the time but it still feels like yesterday.

I walk softly to the kitchen, making sure to avoid the creaky floorboards near the hall. I don't want to wake him up yet. He'll be on me soon enough, demanding things I can't give. The same things he's always demanded: money, favors, time-anything to cover up his mistakes.

I glance at the stack of overdue bills on the counter, and my stomach sinks. The same stack that's been there for months, untouched, collecting dust. Every time I see it, I feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest, I'm reminded of the life I never asked for.

"Aria," my father's voice calls out, breaking the silence of the morning. It's slurred, thick with sleep and alcohol. "Aria, get up. I need you."

I close my eyes, wishing I could ignore him or pretend I'm someone else, somewhere else.

I force myself to walk into the living room, where he's still lying sprawled on the couch. His eyes are barely open, his hair a tangled mess, and his clothes wrinkled from whatever late-night binge he had last night. The smell of alcohol hangs heavy in the air.

"Morning, Dad," I say, my voice sounding emptier than I mean it to.

"You got any money?" he asks, his tone flat and demanding. "I need you to pay some debts. I can't go another day without settling this."

His words hang in the air like an unwanted cloud. Every time he says something like that, it cuts me a little deeper. He doesn't care about me, he only cares about himself-about getting out of the mess he's made, no matter who he drags down with him.

"I don't have any more money," I reply, keeping my voice steady even though I can feel the tension building in my chest. "I told you, I'm working on what I can."

He grumbles, shifting on the couch, clearly irritated by my refusal. He looks at me through half-lidded eyes, a mixture of anger and desperation on his face. "What do you mean you don't have any? You're not telling me you've blown it all already, are you?"

I want to scream at him, tell him that it's not my fault he gambled away our lives, that it's not my fault I'm the one cleaning up his mess, but I don't. Instead, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and hold his gaze.

"I'm trying, Dad," I say, though the words feel hollow. "But I can't fix everything for you. You need to stop-"

"I need you to take care of it!" He cuts me off, his voice rising. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. "Do you think I'm some charity case, Aria? Do you think I want to be in this position? This is on you too, you know. I gave you everything. I raised you, and now you can't even help me?"

His words stab at me, sharp and painful. It's always the same. His guilt trip and manipulation. I wanted to tell him that I didn't ask for his "help." I wanted to remind him that it was his choices that brought us here.

I take a deep breath and nod. "I'll see what I can do."

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything else. I turn and walk away, fighting the urge to break down. How did I get here? How did I end up in this life? How did I become the one who carries all the weight while he gets to play the victim?

I glance at the clock. I don't have much time, I need to go to work, to make sure I bring in enough money to keep him off my back for another day, maybe another week or even a month.

It feels like it will never end. I'm trapped in this cycle of never having enough, never being enough.

I grab my coat from the back of the chair and make my way to the door but before I can open it, my father calls out again.

"Don't forget to pick up some cash from the bank," he says, his tone now condescending, as though it's an afterthought. "It's important."

I pause, gripping the doorknob so hard my knuckles turn white. I turned and picked up the check from the small wooden table beside the couch.

"I won't forget," I say, though I know he won't even remember asking me by the time I come back.

I step out, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders. I try not to think about how many more days like this I'll have to endure. How many more days until something breaks, until I finally find a way out of this hell.

I don't know if I'll ever get out. And that thought is the hardest.

I tugged my worn jacket tighter around me, feeling the fabric rough against my arms. My feet carried me automatically down the cracked pavement, past sagging houses and shuttered shops, toward the looming glass box of the bank downtown but halfway there, a familiar little house caught my eye - a burst of color in the gray neighborhood. Pale blue shutters, potted plants spilling over with bright flowers. Laura's house.

I slowed, my heart tugging in two directions. The clock in my head warned me that every second I wasted would only add fuel to my father's rage but a deeper, more desperate voice whispered that I needed this - even if just for a moment.

I turned down the short walkway, my sneakers scuffing against the broken stones. The porch creaked under my weight as I knocked, a soft tap that sounded louder in the heavy, still afternoon.

A moment later, the door swung open and there she was - Laura Morano, my childhood best friend. Her messy blonde hair was twisted into a lopsided bun, and her T-shirt was smudged with flour, like she'd been baking again.

"Aria!" Her face lit up like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "God, it's been days! Come in, come in!"

For a second, just standing there in front of her, I felt the tight knot in my chest loosen. I smiled - a real, unforced smile - and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla wrapped around me like a hug. Laura's kitchen was warm, cluttered, alive. A sharp contrast to the suffocating silence of my father's house.

"Sit," she said, dragging me toward the worn kitchen table littered with half-finished crossword puzzles and coffee mugs. "I just made banana bread. You look like you could use a whole loaf."

I sank into the chair, my body aching with invisible bruises. Laura bustled around, slicing bread, pouring lemonade, talking a mile a minute. Her chatter was a balm - pulling me out of the dark thoughts that clung like cobwebs.

It wasn't until she sat across from me, her keen green eyes studying my face, that the silence settled between us.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

I stared at the table, tracing a crack in the wood with my fingertip. The words fought in my throat, shame and anger twining together, but Laura knew me too well.

"It's your dad, isn't it?" she said softly.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Who else?"

Laura reached out and squeezed my hand. Her touch was warm, steady. "What happened this time?"

I swallowed hard. The humiliation burned hotter than ever. "He... he gambled away almost everything again. He's been drinking, making deals with people he shouldn't. And today, he sent me to cash this." I lifted the crumpled check slightly. "Probably his last hope before someone breaks down our door looking for him."

Laura's face tightened with concern. She didn't ask why I still stayed - she knew. He's the only family I have left.

"I'm so tired, Laura," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Tired of always cleaning up his messes, tired of feeling like I'm the only one holding this sinking ship together."

Tears pricked the back of my eyes, but I blinked them away fiercely. Crying wouldn't change anything. It has never changed anything.

Laura squeezed my hand tighter. "I hate what he's done to you," she said fiercely. "You deserve so much better, Aria. You're not his pawn, neither are you his shield. You have your own life to live."

I wished I could believe that the dream of freedom didn't feel so far away, like a shoreline glimpsed through endless storms.

"I can't just leave," I said hollowly. "He has no one else. And if I don't help him, who will?"

Laura's eyes softened with sadness - not pity, but understanding.

"You're stronger than you think," she said quietly. "One day, you're going to get out of that house, Aria. You're going to have the life you deserve, not because someone hands it to you but because you fought for it."

Her words settled in my chest like a tiny spark, struggling against the cold.

I gave her a watery smile. "Thanks, Laura. I... I needed to hear that today."

We sat there for a few more precious minutes, nibbling at banana bread, pretending the world outside didn't exist. Laura went about her business, making beautiful dresses. I've always admired her skill, she's a really good fashion designer and I hope one day, she gets the recognition she deserves.

I let myself relax for the first time in what felt like days, soaking in the warmth of friendship like a flower turned toward the sun until reality came crashing back in, swift and brutal, as I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Terror seized my gut.

Shit. I'm late.

I jumped up, nearly knocking over my chair. "I have to go. If he's waiting..."

Laura stood too, worry lining her face. "Be careful, okay? Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

I nodded, too choked up to speak. She hugged me tightly, and for a moment, I clung to her like a drowning woman to a lifeline.

Then I pulled away, shoving the check deeper into my pocket, and ran down the porch steps, down the cracked walkway, back into the heavy, oppressive heat of the day.

Every step felt heavier, dread pooling in my stomach. I could already imagine the anger waiting for me at home. The accusations, the fists banging on tables, and the way he would make me feel like the villain in his endless tragedy.

In the midst of all the thoughts, I could still hear Laura's words.

"One day, you're going to have the life you deserve."

I don't know how or when, but for the first time in a long time, I was hopeful.