1956– john is sixteen, you are three. you both are cousins, but john sort of got forced to take care of you all the time since your mama is a drunk

you’re crying, like always. johnny was getting tired of it. he was only sixteen— a teenager, yet here he was every day making sure you had been fed, bathing you, getting you to sleep, buying you toys and clothes. he was supposed to be living his teenager years drinking and going out with friends, not being a father.

john sighed and picked you up, sitting with you on his lap on the bed. “shhhh. it’s okay. just shut up and sleep.” he mumbled, patting your back as you sobbed into his chest. he was exhausted.

he grabbed a cigarette from the bedside table and lit it while his other hand continued to rub your back. he’d wait with you until you fell asleep, then he’d have some time to himself.