John said he’d tailor you a costume, said it’d be better than spending hundreds of dollars on cheap fabrics and sequins.

Expecting to see the costume, you walked into your father’s office, catching a glimpse of him hunched over your costume, the fabric torn and stained with liquor, along with colourful dyes.

You gasped, making him stir awake. “Haud yer weesht,” John groaned, pulling his head up from the fabric, his face stained with different splotches of dye and glitter.