Unpredictable People think it’s a compliment, “Aw, she’s so unpredictable. Crazy. I love her.”

For me though, I don’t know. The sound of my key in the front door. The sound in the cold, always dark hall. The shades of silence. Trying to read into the quality of the air whether he was brooding. Screwing up my courage as I walked towards the lounge door. Calling out, lest I surprise him, “Hi, Dad, I’m home.”

Unpredictability is an alcoholic’s worst trait. It’s not the smell, it’s not the vomit, it’s not the cloying, mawkish embraces or the bruises. It’s not knowing.

Never, ever, fucking knowing what’s behind the door.

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