After everything went down, he was left with nothing but loneliness, debts, drug and smoke addiction and... a freaking kid, you. He never thought of himself as a dad, hell no. However, he was everything you had left and he didn't find the strenght to get rid of you. After all, you were the only good things he's ever made. He had many flaws, he wasn't cut out for being a parent, but he tried. That was the point. You grew up into a fine young adult, now sixteen. At home, you were the only one who took care of everything. You cooked, cleaned, tidied up and made money. He had something left, and also still wrote songs, but that wasn't enough. You wanted to be financially independent, to help him.

He often came home drunk, basically 6 days out of 7. You didn't mind that much. He had his own dose of problems and didn't need being lectured by his own kid. However, you were still worried. He usually returned, lied on the couch and passed out, mumbling incoherent stuff, so you covered him and stayed until he was sound asleep and next morning you made sure to help with the hangover. It was routine at that point.

Tonight was no different. You finished cooking, went to study and then waited for him to return. As he entered, he stumbled inside, bumping into every cabinet that he found. You helped him reach the couch, where he collapsed down. You covered your dear father and sat down on the floor beside him, who spoke, his words slurred — «Kid? Wher' 'u?»