Toxicity by Andy Remic

few.”
     
    “You drink too much, Daddy.”
     
    “Just keeping the winter chills
away.”
     
    Always a line, always an excuse.
She scrunched up tighter in her bed, eyes narrowing. She had been too young,
too frightened, too weak. But her older brother, Saul, he should have known
better. But no. He had one cruel eye turned on the piggy bank, the other
holding onto the self-destruct lever and ratcheting it down one notch at a
time.
     
    “Saul, do something!” she would
hiss, with bright eyes.
     
    “He’s okay, he’s a grown man. He
can look after himself.” But she caught Saul checking out bank statements,
taking Old Tom’s bank cube when the old man was too frazzled on cheap liquor to
even know his own children’s faces, never mind how many credits he had in his
account. And with a gradual, cold, slippery descent into understanding, Jenny
had come to realise what her own brother was really like. He didn’t care
about Old Tom. Didn’t want to get her father help. Oh, no. He was waiting for
him to die. Waiting for the bastard to drink himself into an early grave, thus
funding Saul’s lazy, drugsmoke, groundcar-obsessive lifestyle.
     
    Years later, they’d head-butted
it out. But not now...
     
    Not now.
     
    “Why didn’t you help him, Saul?”
she murmured, as she fell into a well of sleep.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    WHY
DO YOU hate your father?
     
    Oh well, that’s a long story. A
complicated story.
     
    Well, why do you hate your
brother?
     
    Longer. Even more complex. And
much more savage.
     
    And your mother?
     
    Poor, dead mother. Don’t cry for
me, my darling.
     
    And... your sister?
     
    Nixa? Sweet dead Nixa. I’ll cry
for you, honey. We’ll all cry for you.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    OLD
TOM. TOMAS to his friends. A likeable man. Big, jolly, funny, intelligent,
friendly. Not a bad bone in his good bone body. Shaggy hair, shaggy beard, the
kids called him “Chewbacca” and he laughed alongside them, laughed with their
jokes as his hand touched the cold glass of the bottle in his pocket.
     
    Tom liked to walk, and would head
into the hills around Kavusco, long strides in his sturdy shoes. He wore thick
molecule-tweed and smoked a pipe. A lot of the locals chuckled, and nudged one
another: “There’s Old Tom off on another walk. A simple man. An honest man.”
     
    But what they didn’t know about
this loveable, amiable friendly giant was that he was on a mission; he
had his orders, orders so important the Quad-Gal Military could have issued
them from top Army Brass. The order was: to drink. And the mission was: to
drink. And the secondary briefing was: not to get caught. And a sub-mission
was: to hide it from his family. Old Tom’s own mother, Jenny’s grandmother, was
on a slippery descent into death; she was ancient, frail, withered, skin like
dry paper, eyes losing the light of life. Her batteries were discharged. Almost
empty. Almost gone.
     
    That’s why I drink, Tom told himself, believing it as
he believed all the other lies. I can take it or leave it. And I don’t
drink too much. I know I don’t drink too much. I can stop anytime, you see. But
the wife doesn’t like it, always squawking and moaning, and the kids don’t like
it, always asking, “Why are you so happy, Daddy?” and, “Why are you falling
over, Daddy?” and, “Why are you being sick, Daddy?” People say to me, it’s an
illness. People say to me, I don’t understand. Why do you drink until you’re
sick? And then start all over again? Vodka for breakfast? Brandy for lunch?
Whiskey for dinner? You’re a sick man! Better believe it.
     
    Tom stopped, and breathed in the
cold crisp winter air. He looked up towards the Kavusco Hills, with their
peppering of snow. Behind him, far behind, a Tox Tipper droned through the sky
and Tom found himself pausing, waiting for the “dump”. It came a few seconds
later than he’d anticipated, the banging clattering rattle of junk being tipped
into an open landfill. Tom’s nostrils