Ever wake up in the morning and wonder why you're still breathing? Ever wake up like that for a week straight? No, I didn't think so. If scars are tattoos with better stories, I can't imagine the stories I should have, but right now I'm not telling them.
Nighttime at the Last Rose bar is my domain. I work the bar from 7pm till close, seven days a week. My regulars, men mostly, will tell you some pretty strange stories about me. Ignore them, It's the liquor talking.
What's that? You want to hear the stories anyway? Alright, you asked for it.
My story starts back home, in Texas. I was born to a single mother, a mother who never told me about my father. she only told me that I didn't miss him. For years I think I listened. But once you're told to forget about someone, you only think about them more. So I went right on thinking about this mysterious father of mine until I was 16. Until my mother got sick.
Nobody ever told me that alcohol could kill you, but it can. It killed my mother. I was 18 with my independence and a big handful of life insurance money. Money that I never knew existed. With a wave and a laugh I left small town Texas for the lights of the city... For the lights of Calgary Canada.
I know what you're thinking. Canada? Sure, why not. What better place for a woman sick of America, who can't say a damn thing in another language. But I'm trying to learn french, really I am. What? Don't you believe me?
Let me tell you, a small town girl with a wad of money can get lost quick in the city. I was gifted with enough intelligence to buy an apartment and furnishings before stupidity lost the rest of my money. Now I work like everyone else. I pay my bills, wash my dishes, and take out the trash. That's it.
What's that? Of course that's it... Oh, I did say they were strange stories didn't I? Maybe I'm not telling the right story.
Maybe I should tell you about finding my father. Yes? Well... Alright.
I'd been in Canada for a few years, the years it took for my wilder side to wear off. when the haze of smoke and alcohol finally cleared, I started thinking about my father again. This mysterious man that my mother swore was the devil incarnate. The last of my life insurance stash was used to hire a private investigator. the man took my name, social security number, and date of birth... and worked wonders. Within two weeks I had an address for my father. In South Dakota.
I knew something was strange when I first pulled the rental car into the tiny, one stop light town. I was a small town girl, but not this small. The roads were more dust than asphalt and every local stared at me like I'd just stepped of a space ship. When I asked for directions to my father's address, the gas station clerk first insisted that "I didn't want to go there." It took ten minutes to convince the man that I did indeed want directions. A second cause for concern.
The house was at the end of a dead end street, a good mile from the nearest neighbor. The house was fairly plain, in need of a good coat of paint and some serious gardening. But the walk was swept and no newspapers or mail had piled up on the step. I took a chance and decided to knock. There was no answer. I went back to town and picked up an early dinner at the tiny local diner.
It was just after dark when I knocked again. Still no answer, the gate to the backyard was unlatched, I decided to have a peak. Do you blame me? That's when things went wrong. The back door was ajar, I wasn't thinking, I ran over to investigate. I knocked, I yelled. I finally went inside. It was plain, a man's house, but neat. But that wasn't what caught my attention. What concerned me was the path of chaos cut from the back door to the bedroom.
Panic set in. I had to get out of there, find the local law enforcement (if there was any). My brain functioned enough to start me backing through the door. I never made it outside. I bumped into something big and hairy in the doorway, praying it was only the dog I had missed. If dogs smell that bad.
I don't remember anything else from that night, which I suppose is a blessing. I do remember waking up the next day in a pool of blood. My blood. The doctors swore I had been attacked by a bear, judging by the gaping claw marks on my shoulder and thigh. I want to see this bear, I want to know what happened to my father. I never got either of my questions answered then.
A few weeks later I figured out that it wasn't a bear. Bears don't run in packs, Bears don't hunt for blood, Bears don't kill in anger. Wolves do. I do.
That's it. I swear. Why did I tell you? Because you're to drunk to remember this in the morning.
