[NSFW] Daughter Vinyl


                                            >The shrill pitch of your alarm clock rouses you from sleep, the numbers on the washed-out display announcing the end of another night cut short.

                                            >The first of the morning sun is just about to creep over the horizon, touching your bedroom with a subtle hint of pink and orange.

                                            >The sky has already turned a soft blue, the clouds pushing in from the horizon telling of the afternoon rains announced for later today.

                                            >You sit up, rolling your shoulders and popping your joints.

                                            >For a brief, wavering moment, you consider just calling in sick today and staying in bed for a few more hours, but your body is pushing you to stand up before you can finish the line of thought.

                                            >So much for that.

                                            >Well, it’s not like you don’t want to go to work; it’s just that you could do with a little more sleep, is all.

                                            >A forty-something man is looking back at you from the mirror, his eyes still only barely open, his faded t-shirt getting uncomfortably tight around his stomach these days.

                                            >He could stand to get back into shape a little.

                                            >Maybe get a haircut and have the barber do something about the increasing amounts of gray sparkling on his head or streaking their way through his beard.

                                            >Absentmindedly scratching at your stubble, you make your way to the bathroom.


                                            >Your apartment is still pleasantly cool, the fresh breeze coming through the window slowly waking you up.

                                            >And if that wasn’t enough, the sight you get when opening your bathroom door certainly would have been.

                                            >A round, heart-shaped butt is the first thing you see, clad in nothing but a pair of skimpy panties that leave little to the imagination.

                                            >You blink for a second, only noticing the girl attached to it a moment later.

                                            >She’s kneeling in front of your toilet with her head in the bowl, emptying her stomach with disgusting noises of splashing liquid.

                                            "Vinyl," you grumble, your words still sluggish from sleep, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

                                            >Wiping her mouth with her hand after spitting, your daughter turns around.

                                            >"What's it look like, Dad?" she groans wearily.

                                            "It looks like you're puking out whatever shit you poisoned yourself with last night and then some."

                                            >"Yeah? Well fuck–"

                                            >She doesn’t get to finish, another wave of filth making its way into the toilet.


                                            >You guess it’s been a few months already.

                                            >Enough time that you have to wonder if your daughter had the same color of neon-bright hair the last time you saw her, or if it changed to yet another shade of dye again.

                                            >The strands of blue and purple are messy and disheveled, framing a face smeared with makeup and a pair of bloodshot eyes.

                                            >She snuck into your place after a night of partying in the city, if her clothes are anything to judge from.

                                            >Her excuse for a shirt barely goes down to her midriff, giving you an unobstructed view of her stomach and hips.

                                            >You find her shorts abandoned in the corner, the piece of cloth itself only barely more than what other people would call underwear.

                                            >Your daughter’s actual idea of panties leaves even less room for guesswork.

                                            >"I'm fine..." Vinyl breathes, resting her head on the toilet rim.

                                            "Yeah, you do look fine."

                                            >You grab your toothbrush.

                                            "Just looking at you, I get the impression of a successful young lady who's got all of life’s doors open for her."

                                            >"Screw you."

                                            >Flushing your daughter's leftover party impressions and making her wince at the sudden noise, you start brushing your teeth, a little more forceful than usual.

                                            >This girl.

                                            >You want to be mad at her, but—more importantly—at her mom for having her turn out this way.

                                            >Your ex didn’t really care about her daughter.

                                            >In the years Vinyl would have needed it most, she wasn’t there to tell her how to make it to adulthood without fucking up too majorly.

                                            >Then again, neither were you.

                                            >You didn’t protect her from the things she would have needed protection from, didn’t go to see her school plays and sport events, hell, you didn’t even have contact with her for a couple of years.

                                            >You were too busy living your life; working and going to bars to get wasted and try banging chicks barely older than her.

                                            >You never wanted to be a dad, and you did your level best to run away from the responsibilities once you became one.

                                            >The evidence of your negligence is not two meters away from you, groaning and clutching her stomach as another wave of nausea rushes over her.

                                            >There were times when you hated how you handled your life, even more so because it’s not you who has to pay for the mistakes you made along the way.

                                            >Then again, it’s not like it matters anymore.

                                            >You don’t even think about her that much, most days.

                                            >It’s just another item on your list of fuckups.

                                            >You keep being surprised whenever you find her like this: hanging in your toilet, sweating alcohol and ecstasy, and looking like she’d rather die than continue being conscious for even one more second.


                                            >Rinsing your mouth, you turn around to your daughter again, the girl having stopped vomiting for now.

                                            >She’s dry-heaving, tears running down her cheeks from the coughing and spitting.

                                            "You need to get out. I gotta shower."

                                            >"Fat chance!" Vinyl croaks. "I ain’t moving from this"—she slaps the toilet bowl—"for a... a second."

                                            >You glare at her.

                                            >"Just do what you gotta do. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Hell..."

                                            >Your daughter turns to give you a cold look, the mascara staining her cheeks turning it into something ugly.

                                            >"Nothing I ain’t handled before, even. You start getting forgetful in your old age?"

                                            >You wish you did.

                                            >You wish your mind would let you kill the memories of those nights, the nights when both of you were wasted as shit, making a mess out of your bedsheets.

                                            >Heaven knows you’ve emptied enough bottles of liquor trying to.

                                            >You’re not really a father to her, not in the classical sense, so some missteps are bound to happen when she shows up on your doorstep, drugged out of her mind and pent-up from grinding on the dancefloor all night.

                                            >Right?

                                            >Without giving her the satisfaction of an answer, you pull off your shirt and boxers and get into the shower.

                                            >"Yeah," Vinyl grunts. "Didn’t think so."


                                            >A shower, morning coffee, and quick breakfast later, you’re ready to leave for work.

                                            >You're a security guard for a private cash-in-transit contractor, and it’s generally frowned-upon if you’re late for your shift.

                                            >Most of the job is riding along in the armored car between the drop-off points, but you do get a gun and body armor.

                                            >You’re about to leave—you’re fifteen minutes behind by now—when your daughter finally comes out of the bathroom.

                                            >She took off her top, her tiny pair of panties now the only thing left protecting the rest of her modesty.

                                            >Well, barely.

                                            "What happened to your shirt?" you ask in annoyance, trying not to look at your daughter’s breasts.

                                            >"Got puke on it."

                                            >Vinyl is still visibly shaky on her legs, holding herself up against the doorframe.

                                            >"I threw it in your basket."

                                            "I do love it when you leave me gifts on your visits."

                                            >"It’s one of my favorites, too," the girl manages to sound sarcastic through her suffering, "and these are my 'get-fucked' panties."

                                            >She pulls on the string, letting it snap back against her skin for emphasis.

                                            >"Didn’t work last night, though," she adds lamely.

                                            "Go put on one of my shirts."

                                            >"Yeah..."

                                            >Wobbling over to your couch, Vinyl gently lets herself down onto the cushions, her eyes closed.

                                            >"In a minute. When I don’t feel like I’m about to hurl from just being awake."

                                            >You shake your head, pulling open the door.

                                            >"There’s food in the fridge. I don’t suppose you’ve got anywhere to be today?"

                                            >She shakes her head, immediately regretting the motion.

                                            >"Go to sleep," you instruct, already halfway out the door. "Don’t puke on the carpet and don’t burn down the house. We’ll talk tonight."


                                            >You are Vinyl Scratch, and you’ve just slept eight hours on your Dad’s couch.

                                            >Well, you’re not sure if you were actually sleeping or just plain passed out, but the result seems to be the same.

                                            >Good enough for you.

                                            >You’ve managed to get a bit of rest after the night you’ve put your body through, in either case.

                                            >The nausea from earlier seems to have died-down, replaced with the foreshocks of a splitting headache that is just about to gain enough traction to feel like you’ve taken a bullet to your skull.

                                            >You’d put on your shades to shut out the migraine-bright light falling through the windows, but it looks like you’ve cracked the lenses again.

                                            >That’s the third pair this month, you remember, chucking the broken thing into the corner.

                                            >You look like shit, you feel like shit, and for the second time this week, you woke up after a night in the city without recalling how you got to where you are.

                                            >You know where you are, of course, and you remember how you snuck in this morning using the spare key that your dad still hasn’t taken away from you for some reason, but before that, your memories are hazy.

                                            >Well, no sense in trying to get back to it now.

                                            >Chances are you’re better off not remembering anyway.


                                            >After getting one of your Dad’s shirts—you just pull one from his closet somewhere, only vaguely recognizing the logo on it belonging to some eighties heavy-metal band—you make your way into the bathroom.

                                            "Bingo."

                                            >A bottle of featureless pills is hidden in the back of the mirror cabinet, the label betraying its contents to be exactly what you need right now.

                                            >You crunch down a healthy portion of the prescription-grade painkillers, letting their bitter flavor replace the taste of vomit on your tongue before gulping them down.

                                            >Must be left over from when he hurt his back, these.

                                            >Lucky you.

                                            >Pulling off your underwear, you flick away the scant piece of fabric into the direction of the washing basket and step into the shower.

                                            >A small part of you is amused by the mental image of your dad warily collecting it for washing.

                                            >The warm water does its part in helping you stem the pain hammering into your skull, as well as washing out the puke you’ve apparently managed to get into your hair somehow.

                                            >You emerge a good ten minutes later, actually not feeling like you’ve died and forgotten to lie down for the first time since waking up.

                                            >It might just be the painkillers starting to do their job.

                                            >You throw on your dad’s shirt—the thing is easily large enough to reach your mid-thighs, so you refrain from rummaging through his drawers to find a pair of boxers to borrow for now.

                                            >Settling on a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast—it’s late afternoon already but you just woke up—you find a neat row of brown bottles stacked into the top shelf of the fridge.

                                            >Eh, might as well.

                                            >You screw open a beer, taking a hefty pull while pouring milk over your cereal.

                                            >Leave it to the forty-something single guy on the slippery slope towards alcoholism to provide for his daughter in her time of need.

                                            >It’s only fair, you think.

                                            >He doesn’t really care much about you, so the least he can do is let you drink his stash.


                                            >You don’t really hold your dad’s disinterest in you against him, to be honest.

                                            >Hell, you’d walk away from it, too, if you ended up preggo one of these nights.

                                            >Fuck going through that shit.

                                            >Just have a day trip to the clinic and save yourself a lifetime's worth of trouble and shitty birthday parties.

                                            >Unfortunately, no one seems to have told your mom about that option.

                                            >From what he told you, your old man explained to her that he wouldn’t be sticking around from the get-go, and yet she went ahead and had her baby anyway.

                                            >And here you are, sitting in your dad’s grimy two-room apartment after a night of substance abuse you’ve only got a vague memory of, already halfway done with your second beer of the day.

                                            >You’d laugh if you didn’t feel like crying so much.


                                            >A few more empty bottles join their brothers on the table, and you crunch down another dose of painkillers to take the edge off for good measure.

                                            >At least your dad living in the city means you’ve got a place to crash from time to time, when you missed the last train again and didn’t manage to get picked up by some random guy.

                                            >You don’t even make that much of a mess in here, most of the times.

                                            >And while your old man may not hit all the ticks on your typical checklist for when it comes to dates, you’ve even ended up scoring a couple of times.

                                            >Better than nothing, when you’ve taken way too much molly and are horny as fuck, right?

                                            >Beats waking up on some loser’s Murphy bed with cum all over your clothes at least.

                                            >Yeah, you decide with a nod and another gulp of beer, fucking your old man’s the better option here.

                                            >It also helps that he’s not the worst-looking deadbeat dad out there.

                                            >Sure, his muscles are hidden under a bit of fat by now, but it does give him that burly, goes-out-to-bitchslap-bears-and-then-comes-home-to-fuck-you-silly look.

                                            >He even unwittingly scored with a couple of your friends before, and they did tell you they were sufficiently satisfied when recounting the occasion.

                                            >Judging from your own experiences, you don’t think they were lying.

                                            >What’s a little in-family screwing even going to matter on your growing list of sins by now?


                                            >You spend the next hour or so watching TV and playing with your phone, flicking through some random snapshots and selfies on the cracked screen.

                                            >They’re mostly party pictures, in some way or another, along with the occasional dick pic you got sent and your overly-risqué replies to them.

                                            >You should probably delete those.

                                            >Wouldn’t want someone finding your phone to have an entire gallery of your ass and pussy.

                                            >A picture catches your eye and you tap the icon to bring it up.

                                            >It’s you and your dad.

                                            >You’re not usually the type for pictures like these, the kind you’d see stacked along the walls of a normal family’s living room.

                                            >You can’t help but smile, recalling the day it was taken.

                                            >Your dad actually convinced you to a trip to the zoo after you’d crashed at his place.

                                            >The fucking zoo.

                                            >The image shows the two of you at one of those photo-opportunity setups, side by side in front of the tiger enclosure.

                                            >He’s got his arm around you, pulling you close, grinning at the camera like he had just found out there would be a bunch of naked chicks in the next compound.

                                            >You yourself are glaring at the camera like you’re trying to hate-stare it to death, pissed and probably hung-over.

                                            >Your hair is smooth, falling down around your face in straight strands, for once not spiked-up and smothered in gel and hairspray.

                                            >You remember you were grumpy and morose the entire day, like a bratty child throwing a tantrum at Disneyworld for not getting to ride the rollercoaster for a fourth time.

                                            >It didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

                                            >From all the pictures on your phone, this one is probably the nicest, you decide.

                                            >For once, it shows a normal girl.

                                            >A girl on a day trip with her dad, annoyed and grumpy at having to actually spend time with her family instead of calling up her friends or chatting away in some online forum.

                                            >Looking at her, you wouldn’t suspect how fucked-up her life actually is.


                                            >You are Anon, and you’re not sure if you should be annoyed or appalled right now.

                                            >Or even surprised at all.

                                            >Coming home to your borderline-addict of a daughter, you expected to find a lot of things.

                                            >You expected her to be flat passed-out in your bed, or hanging over the toilet again, her body making her pay for the night of abuse she’d subjected it to.

                                            >You even entertained the possibility that she’d be completely gone already when you came back, out to take the next wrong turn on the highway of mistakes that is her life.

                                            >What you didn’t expect, was her sitting on your couch in one of your shirts, her feet on the table and surrounded by what looks like your entire stash's worth of empty beer bottles.

                                            "Seriously?"

                                            >Vinyl turns to look at you, her straight hair a stark contrast to the tangled mess of blue and purple from before.

                                            >"What?"

                                            >Her question is a challenge, a dare for you to lecture her about her bullshit after two decades of not giving a shit.

                                            >You take it.

                                            "When I left, you were just about to fall over from stuffing God knows what into your bloodstream last night, and now that I’m back, you’re already sauced again?"

                                            >She shrugs.

                                            "Do you WANT to end up in the ER one of these days?"

                                            >"S’not like that," Vinyl grumbles, "I just got bored waiting for you."

                                            >She gives you a roguish smile.

                                            >"There isn’t terribly much to do here for a girl, you know?"

                                            "So you decided to empty two six-packs?"

                                            >Your daughter nods.

                                            >Putting the two large bags of groceries you brought with you onto the kitchen counter, you begin unpacking.

                                            >You don’t usually buy much food, but you went and did some shopping after work today, even getting a bunch of fresh stuff and fruits you barely even know the names of.

                                            >You can’t cook for shit, which is why you tend to subsist on frozen crap and takeout most of the time, but you thought it’d be a good idea to try and prepare something actually healthy for the sake of your daughter for once.

                                            >God knows she could use it.


                                            >"How was work?" Vinyl asks, leaning over the couch’s backrest and watching you sort away the groceries. "Did you shoot anyone?"

                                            "No."

                                            >She actually looks a little disappointed.

                                            >"But you did before, right? You told me about it once."

                                            >Giving her a disapproving look, you nod.

                                            >"What? It’s interesting. Telling people your dad’s a cop is a good way to get out of trouble."

                                            "I’m not a cop, Vinyl; you know that."

                                            >"You’ve got a gun and you shoot people," your daughter is clambering over the backrest to come help with the groceries. "That’s close enough for me."

                                            "I don’t shoot people. I shot ONE guy who was stupid enough to grab a cash box in a bank."

                                            >"Eh," Vinyl shrugs, "good enough."

                                            >Mustering a carton of eggs you’re about to put into the fridge, the girl pauses.

                                            >"What is all this, anyway? Since when do you eat stuff like this?"

                                            "Thought I could try and cook something for us."

                                            >"You? Cook?" Vinyl snorts, "Are you sure that’s a good idea?"

                                            "I was just thinking you’d want some actual food between your courses of poison, maybe."

                                            >"Thanks, but I’d rather stick with the poisons I know than risk your cooking."

                                            >A bashful look comes over the girl’s face.

                                            >"Speaking of poisons…"

                                            "I saw."

                                            >You glance into the direction of the couch table again, and the defeated beer bottles stacked on top of it.

                                            "Nice work."

                                            >"That’s not what I mean."

                                            >Creeping closer, Vinyl hugs your arm.

                                            >"Do you have anything other than alcohol? I could do with something, you know… more fun."

                                            >She smiles at you knowingly.

                                            >"You wouldn’t let your baby girl sit on all these downers, right?"

                                            >One of your daughter’s hands is rubbing your chest, her fingers playfully tracing the muscles through your shirt.

                                            "I don’t do shit like that anymore," you frown.

                                            >"But you did, right?" Vinyl is still caressing you. "Mom told me about it. About how you fucked like rabbits on X."

                                            >This fucking woman.

                                            >"She was right; best fucking orgasms of my life."

                                            >As if she was explaining the secret truth of the universe to you, the girl is nodding to herself, proud about her first-hand knowledge of drugged-out sex.

                                            "Do we really have to get into this now? Can’t we just, I dunno, cook together?"

                                            >"Aww, but I don’t have any of my stash left after last night. So what do you got? I don’t even care; I just want to get fucked-up a little."

                                            >Your daughter is pressing herself against you, rubbing your arm, the sensation of her breasts clear even through the fabric.


                                            "Fuck off, Vinyl."

                                            >You push her away.

                                            >Not hard enough to hurt her, but still with enough force to send the message.

                                            "I will not go down this road with you," you explain sternly. "I’ve got enough shit haunting me already. Can’t we just have dinner like regular people for once? Without all this bullshit?"

                                            >Your daughter looks like you slapped her.

                                            "You could stay for a few days for once. Maybe we can go out or something. Or do anything else that doesn’t involve getting drunk or high."

                                            >"Oh, fuck you!"

                                            >Vinyl spits the words at you, venom glinting in her eyes.

                                            >"You went around partying and getting high in YOUR time and now you’re lecturing me about it? Screw you!"

                                            "Vinyl–"

                                            >"It’s not my fault you ended up knocking up some slut. You think you have the right to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do now?"

                                            "I’m asking you to learn from my mistakes," you try to placate her. "You don’t want to carry this kind of shit around with you."

                                            >"Shit like a daughter you didn’t want, right?"

                                            "You know I didn’t mean that."

                                            >"Nah," the girl shakes her head, strands of her hair swaying with the motion, "screw this."

                                            >She stomps back into the bathroom before you can say anything else, only to come back out a second later, buttoning up her shorts.

                                            >Tucking the hem of your t-shirt into them, she’s already on her way to the door.

                                            "Vinyl, please."

                                            >Without another word, your daughter storms out.

                                            "Wait!"

                                            >The bang of your front door falling closed echoes through your apartment, leaving you standing alone in front of your kitchen isle, still holding a bag of potatoes like an idiot.

                                            "I’m trying to make this right."


                                            >You messed up again.

                                            >Putting away the last of your groceries—the process made so much worse now that you know you’ll just end up throwing them out eventually—you take inventory of your fridge.

                                            >Vinyl managed to go through all of your beer and even the two cans of cheap champagne you kept in the crisper drawer.

                                            >Which is unfortunate, as you’d really like something to dull your mind right now.

                                            >Something to kill the sinking feeling in your gut, the feeling that announces you’ve yet again managed to fail your daughter.

                                            >Something that makes you stop replaying the scene in your head and look for the point you should have handled differently.

                                            >You wish she would just stop showing up at this point.

                                            >It would make it easier.

                                            >You wouldn’t have to dig through your cupboards, hoping to God that she didn’t find and rob you of the bottle of cheap Whisky you keep tucked-away for emergencies.

                                            >She didn’t.

                                            >Your fingers caress the container of amber liquid, quickly unscrewing the cap.

                                            >It burns your throat on the way down, stinging in your chest and settling in your stomach with a familiar, comforting warmth.

                                            >You can already feel it starting to numb the anxiousness.

                                            >The second swig is less violent, and you allow the liquor’s flavor to remain on your tongue for a moment before gulping it down.

                                            >You never did grow a taste for it.

                                            >It never started feeling like anything but gasoline going down your esophagus.

                                            >Leaving the bottle on your coffee table, you go to find a glass.

                                            >You don’t find a clean one, but the coffee mug from this morning still seems usable enough.


                                            >You don’t know how long you sat in your living room, chugging more Whisky and trying to forget your daughter’s look when she stormed out the door.

                                            >Or the tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes.

                                            >You’ve never seen her cry, come to think of it.

                                            >Even when she was younger—on the rare occasions when she came to visit or spent a weekend—she always made it a point to hide before allowing herself to break down.

                                            >You could still hear her sobs coming through the door, though, a series of wet, shuddering hiccups interrupted by long silences.

                                            >You can’t hope to remember now, but you bet it was your fault most of the times.


                                            >Judging by the silence outside your apartment, the evening has already advanced to night and early morning afterwards.

                                            >The air is damp and sweltering hot, and you have a feeling it wouldn’t allow you to rest even if you tried to.

                                            >The noise of drunken partygoers hitting sleazy bars for their nightcaps or finding their way home is the only thing occasionally disturbing the oppressing quiet.

                                            >Your bottle of Whisky is well on its way to being empty.

                                            >Despite your best efforts, your mind keeps showing you Vinyl’s face, sometimes gently smiling at you, sometimes staring daggers and shouting expletives.

                                            >Sometimes she’s crying, sparkling tears streaming down her cheeks, begging you to explain why you wouldn’t be there for her.

                                            >You try to kill the images quickly enough but the alcohol is proving less and less effective.

                                            >They come back again and again.


                                            >You wonder where she is right now.

                                            >Maybe you should go out and try to find her.

                                            >Even if you wanted to, you’ve got no idea where she tends to hang out.

                                            >You realize you’ve got your phone in your hand, playing with the contacts app.

                                            >It’s one of those new models, the whole thing just a single piece of glass welded to aluminum, and you always regretted buying it.

                                            >One of your former acquaintances convinced you to, pushing you until you finally gave up your old brick of a mobile and traded it in for something more up-to-date.

                                            >She set it up for you and you haven’t managed to do much else with it since.

                                            >You can make calls and read texts but that’s about it.

                                            >Someone said there’s an app that lets you take pictures of girls to see through their clothes but you’ve never gotten it to work.

                                            >Your daughter’s face looks back at you from the screen, staring at the lens, annoyance at being photographed clear in her expression.

                                            >Her hair is smooth, and you can just make out your arm around her shoulder.

                                            >You tap the contact.

                                            >The familiar ringing of your phone trying to make the connection is already coming from the speaker.

                                            >You’re just about to wonder why you’re calling her, or what you’d actually want to say, but Vinyl picks up after a couple of seconds.

                                            >"Hey, Dad," she greets you, her voice tired and monotone, but for some reason more weary than it is angry.

                                            >You would have expected her to not answer the call, or to take it only to scream herself hoarse.

                                            "Vinyl?"

                                            >Your tongue feels sluggish.

                                            "Where are you?"

                                            >"Out," your daughter replies, and you can make out several more voices talking and laughing in the background.

                                            "Are you alright?"

                                            >"Sure."

                                            >You’re not really convinced.

                                            "Are you in trouble or something?"

                                            >"No," the girl answers curtly before you can hear her talk to someone away from the speaker.

                                            "Listen, I want you to come back. I’m sorry and I know I fucked up but I won’t let this go. Not this time. I’d like for us do this right for once."

                                            >"I don’t know," Vinyl sounds indecisive.

                                            >She’s talking away from the phone again before returning to you.

                                            >"We were just about to leave, too. Maybe it’s best if I stay away for now."

                                            "No!"

                                            >You almost sound pleading.

                                            "Vinyl, just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you, alright? No bullshit, I swear. I’d just like another chance to talk before you disappear again."

                                            >"Disappear, huh?"

                                            "You know what I mean."

                                            >"It’s not like I’m trying to hide, you know. But I guess when you have no intention of looking, it does look like I vanished. I mean… you’re the expert on that…"

                                            "Would you please give me a chance to make this right?"

                                            >There’s a long pause, and you actually check your phone to see if the connection dropped before hearing your daughter sigh quietly.

                                            >"Fine," she grumbles. "I’m in a bar on Fifth Street. All the way to the end and on the left."

                                            "I’m coming right now. Just… just stay there, alright? I’ll be right there."

                                            >You’re already halfway out the door, hastily putting on your shoes.

                                            "Thanks, Vinyl."

                                            >"Hurry up, will ya?" your daughter mumbles before the connection goes dead.


                                            >You find a small, painted door at the address Vinyl gave you, a tacky neon sign in the window next to it announcing it to be 'open'.

                                            >You stumbled through the streets for a bit before actually noticing it, the heat of the night and the fact that you’re pretty drunk by now not exactly helping.

                                            >You’ve never really been to this part of town.

                                            >Walking in, you’re greeted by a tight corridor and a stairway going down immediately from the entrance.

                                            >The wood creaks and groans, and you’re somewhat relieved reaching the bottom after a dozen or so steps.

                                            >Downstairs, a cramped room is flooded with the warm orange light of glow-globes arranged along the walls.

                                            >The vague smell of wood is in the air, mixing with the distinctive aroma of stale alcohol.

                                            >A bar counter runs along the far wall, made of dark, rich wood, it’s surface heavily stained and scratched-up in various places.

                                            >All in all, the bar is pretty much a dive: the barstools are all worn and broken and the upholstery is torn on most of the benches.

                                            >A few faded posters flake from the walls, announcing old festivals or musical performances.

                                            >The handful of patrons are mostly keeping to themselves, slumped over the counter or sipping from drinks at some of the banged-up tables.

                                            >The barkeeper seems to take note of you, extending a slight nod before going back to read the paper folded-out on the countertop.

                                            >And yet, despite its shabbiness, the place has a tranquility to it that you can’t deny, like some precious, hidden-away resting place.

                                            >A meeting spot for lost souls.

                                            >You kind of feel like you fit in.


                                            >You spot a familiar shock of blue hair at one of the corner tables, surrounded by three other characters.

                                            >She hasn’t noticed you yet.

                                            "Vinyl," you rouse the group’s attention once you’re within earshot, making everyone but your daughter turn to look at you.

                                            >"Fuck do you want, old man? You got lost on the way to Bingo or something?"

                                            >The guy closest to you chuckles at his own joke, earning himself a few laughs and sniggers from the other two.

                                            >His arm rests around your daughter’s shoulder.

                                            "Just here for her."

                                            >He looks bewildered, nodding towards Vinyl.

                                            >"Her? Fuck do you want with her? You think she’ll give you the time of the day, huh?" he grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "Can’t fault you, man, but I don’t think there’s enough money in the world."

                                            >There’s another round of snickering.

                                            >"Besides," he points at himself, whispering like he’s about to tell you where to buy contraband, "I kinda got dibs."

                                            >You don’t like him already.

                                            >All three of them, in fact, with their colorful shorts and loud t-shirts, matched by cheap jewelry and intriguing tattoos.

                                            >Looks like they’re pretty fucked-up already.

                                            >"Hey!" the guy you dare suspect as the leader of the color-coordinated troupe snaps his fingers. "Did you hear me? Piss off!"

                                            "I’d like to talk to her," you nod towards your daughter. "So why don’t you find someone else to bother, alright?"

                                            >Surprisingly quick, considering his state of intoxication and the fact that he seems to spend a fair amount of his time at the gym, the guy jumps up, taking a step towards you.

                                            >The herd mentality of his friends seems to compel them to mirror his movement.

                                            >"What did you say? I’m about to lose my patience with you, old man," he pokes your chest.


                                            >You could probably take him, even with the drunken assistance from his friends, but then again, it has been a while since your last bar fight.

                                            >You also don’t know how the owner would react.

                                            >The last thing you want is for somebody to call the cops.

                                            >There’s also the distinct possibility that a punk like this is actually carrying a knife or some other shit.

                                            >You’d rather not find out.

                                            "Look," you make a show of slightly raising your hands, to both signal that you’re not trying to threaten the guy and to get yourself into a better striking position, "can you please fuck off so I can talk to my daughter?"

                                            >"Daughter?" he turns around.

                                            >Vinyl is still sitting on the bench.

                                            >She hasn’t turned to look at you.

                                            >"Hey, Dad."

                                            >That got the guy’s attention, judging by the ragged breath escaping him.

                                            >"Dad?!"

                                            >He stops himself backing away from you, but the look on his face tells you just how close it came to that.

                                            >Seems like you’re not too out of shape yet.

                                            >You try not to smile.

                                            >"Yeah," your daughter nods, taking a sip from her glass, "he’s my Daddy. And he’s a cop."

                                            >The guy is clearly not intrigued.

                                            >His friends are similarly flustered.

                                            >"Is this… Hey, are you fucking underage? Dude, I was just–"

                                            "Get out of here," you grumble.

                                            >The alcohol is starting to take its toll, and you really have no fucking mind to deal with this right now.

                                            >Maybe you wished you had your gun with you to give them a proper scare for a moment there, but the thought vanishes quickly enough.

                                            >Rescuing girls from sleazy bars—for a second, the memories of the time with your ex flash up in your head.

                                            >The dad shtick seems to work better than the boyfriend one, judging by the guys’ reaction.

                                            >Hastily grabbing their stuff, they make to leave, although not without a few quiet slurs being mumbled as they brush past.

                                            >Vinyl is silently grinning to herself.


                                            >"Told you it’s a good way to get out of shit," your daughter chuckles wearily.

                                            >You take the guy’s place next to her, letting yourself sink into the worn upholstery.

                                            >"Works even better when you’re actually there, apparently."

                                            "That your idea of a date?"

                                            >You take the drink away from Vinyl before she can get another sip, giving it a cautious sniff.

                                            >"I guess…"

                                            "Then why have me get rid of 'em?"

                                            >"Eh," the girl plays with a straw left over on the table. "I was just trying to score some X, actually. But I didn’t really feel like fucking them for it and they were kinda persistent. Would have been cool to see you beat them up, though."

                                            "I think you’re overrating my abilities."

                                            >You take a gulp from the drink.

                                            >It’s some highball mixed number, disgustingly sweet to the point of feeling like it’s trying to melt your teeth from the second it entered your mouth.

                                            "Jesus Christ."

                                            >Your daughter giggles softly, looking at you for the first time since you entered the bar.

                                            >"What, can’t handle your drinks anymore? I thought you were supposed to be a borderline alcoholic?"

                                            "There’s alcohol in this? Judging from the taste, it’s just sugar and battery acid."

                                            >"Well, I like it."

                                            >She leans her head against your shoulder, letting her weight rest against your side.

                                            "Vinyl…" you start

                                            >"I know. Can we not do this right now?"


                                            >For a while, you just sit in the dump of a bar, letting your daughter snuggle against your side and absentmindedly play with the buttons of your shirt.

                                            >"That was funny though, how you just scared them away like that," Vinyl smiles. "Not like I needed you to, but… you know."

                                            "Yeah, I know."

                                            >"Be nice to have someone like that. Someone you know will come if shit turns sideways."

                                            "That wasn’t shit turning sideways?"

                                            >"What, that?" Vinyl shakes her head. "Not even close."

                                            >You don’t want to ask—or imagine—what would have happened if you hadn’t called her.

                                            "But shit has turned sideways before, right?"

                                            >Your daughter pauses before nodding, making you feel the motion more than you can see it.

                                            "You do have someone like that, Vinyl. You know that, right? I’ve fucked up pretty much everything I possibly could but you know I’d never hesitate to come to you. One call and I’m there."

                                            >"Yeah, I have you," your daughter sighs. "But not really, though."

                                            >She takes back her drink from you, emptying the glass in a single gulp before you can react.

                                            >"Besides," she chuckles dryly, "it’s way too late for that."


                                            >By the time the two of you make it back to the apartment, the alcohol is full-on hitting you.

                                            >Vinyl looks pretty worn-out, too.

                                            >No wonder, considering she’s been drinking practically since she woke up from what was already a pretty solid hangover.

                                            >Never say your daughter hasn’t learned anything from you.

                                            >The night still hasn’t cooled down, and your apartment remains stuffy despite the cracked windows.

                                            >You can feel your shirt sticking to you and see that your daughter is in a similar state.

                                            >She’s still wearing your old t-shirt with—as you know for a fact—nothing under it.

                                            >The fabric hugs her sweating body, playfully outlining her breasts.

                                            >If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you can make out her nipples through the shirt, puffy and ready for attention.

                                            >It’s not like you’re looking, though.

                                            >You’re not.

                                            >You don’t take note of her tits, imagining how the hot flesh underneath her clothes would feel in your hands.

                                            >You’re also ignoring her shapely legs, the tiny shorts just revealing the bottom of Vinyl’s buttcheeks.

                                            >You’re not once again realizing how incredibly attractive your daughter is, is what you’re getting at.

                                            >Although it doesn’t help that she was tightly hugging your arm for the entire way home.

                                            "Alright," you try to get some sort of order into your head again, the alcohol making everything just a bit more complex, "you take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. If there’s anything you need–"

                                            >You’re interrupted by your daughter pulling her shirt over her head before throwing it onto the couch, her naked skin glistening.

                                            >"We can share the bed, right?" she asks with a breathy voice, cupping her breasts. "We’ve done it before."

                                            >Before you have time to react, the girl snakes her arms around your neck, pulling you down, her face slowly inching closer to yours.

                                            >"I think I’d like that."

                                            "Vinyl," you try to start, but her lips find yours.

                                            "Mhff... Vinyl... wait," you try to mumble through the kiss, grabbing your daughter by her shoulders and pushing her off. "What are you doing?"

                                            >It wasn’t a chaste kiss, not something a father should be sharing with his daughter.

                                            >You did so before with yours, but you’re all but screaming at your brain to stop bringing up the memories.

                                            >The girl answers by unbuttoning her shorts, letting them fall to the floor before stepping out.

                                            >She’s completely naked.

                                            >"I want to thank you for taking care of me."

                                            "No, wait," you dodge another kiss. "This isn’t right. This isn’t why I came to get you."

                                            >"I know. But it’s a nice bonus, right? Would you rather I had ended up with those guys?"

                                            "No, but that doesn’t mean–"

                                            >This time, you don’t manage to push her away before she hugs and locks you into another kiss.

                                            >Her hot breath tickles your skin and her tongue is quickly finding yours.

                                            >It also doesn’t help that she’s rubbing her naked body against you.


                                            >"See," the girl grins knowingly, pulling back to breathe and grab your growing erection through your pants. "I knew you’d remember."

                                            >She starts stroking through the fabric.

                                            >"You said you’d be there for me, right? So let me be there for you, too. You don’t need to waste time picking up your daughter’s friends; just fuck her outright."

                                            "Jesus, Vinyl…"

                                            >Her hand slips into your pants, her fingers making quick work of your underwear.

                                            >"I have to confess something, Dad." Vinyl giggles guiltily. "I lied. I did have one more pill left over. Think you can give your baby girl an orgasm while she’s on molly?"

                                            >Your hands wander to your daughter’s butt, kneading the soft flesh even though you scream at them not to.

                                            >She almost jumps into your arms at the touch.

                                            >"Fffuck, slow down," she growls. "Want me to cream my panties right this second?"

                                            "You’re not wearing panties."

                                            >Vinyl grins as smugly as she can through her excitement.

                                            >She’s already pulled your dick out of your pants, and you realize you’ve moved to rub her pussy through her thighs, slowly stroking around her entrance with your fingers.

                                            >"You really know how to push a girl’s buttons. All these frat boys think they’re hot shit but they don’t have fingers that can make me twitch like this."

                                            >Letting a glob of her saliva drop down, Vinyl starts stroking your shaft more quickly, eliciting a series of wet slaps.

                                            >"Or a cock that makes we want to cum all over it."


                                            >You don’t really know how, but you ended up naked on your bed, your daughter lying on top of you, drooling into your mouth while rubbing her thighs around your dick.

                                            >"Did mom get horny on X? I do. Fuck, I just want to bounce on that dick for hours right now."

                                            >Pulling apart the girl’s asscheeks, you guide yourself to her entrance, her wet, hot flesh all but wrapping itself around you.

                                            >"Can you do that for me, Dad? Pleaaase can you scratch my itch. Even if I cum, don’t stop fucking, alright? Don’t stop until I squirt all over you cock like last time."

                                            >You thrust into her.

                                            >You’d like to say that it’s the alcohol lowering your inhibitions, or even the fact that your drugged-out daughter is just that hot, bouncing her hips and riding your shaft in and out of her pussy, but it’s not.

                                            >You’re just that much of a scumbag.

                                            >"Yesss…" your daughter exhales as you pick up pace, playing with her nipples. "Do you like it?"

                                            >She guides you to look at her pussy, the hot pink flesh greedily swallowing your length with every thrust, her cute little clit just poking out above her lips.

                                            >"It’s made for fucking, isn’t it? Would be a shame if you missed out, wouldn’t it?"

                                            >You answer by grabbing her hips to pull her down onto you even more forcefully.

                                            >Clamping down on you every time, Vinyl is trying to resist every pull-out with wet, agonizing tightness.

                                            >She cums after a couple of minutes of rough thrusting, her legs shakily giving out from under her, making her collapse onto your chest with drool running from her mouth.

                                            >You don’t pull out, instead finding her button with your finger.

                                            >"Fuck!" Vinyl slurs, rolling her hips to ride out her orgasm. "I can’t even fault Mom for getting knocked up by this thing. I’d fuck it all day long if I could."

                                            >The girl recovers quickly, trying to get back into the rhythm although she can’t quite keep up with your pace anymore.

                                            >You don’t mind.

                                            >Sitting up and pushing her backwards, you plow into her again, locking her into place below you.

                                            >You kiss her, her face flushed with excitement and lust, her breasts bouncing deliciously with every push.

                                            >"I guess it’s true that mothers and daughters have similar tastes. And that all guys want to fuck their daughters."


                                            >As shameful as it is to admit, you know how to satisfy your daughter by now.

                                            >You know how to handle her, how to push, how to elicit those cute moans and mewls you should never be able to hear.

                                            >"I so could get addicted to this."

                                            >Vinyl is all but melting beneath you, sweating and panting, trying her hardest to twist this way and that to try and get more pleasure out of your cock.

                                            >"It’s like…"

                                            >She doesn’t get to finish as another wave of ecstasy hits her, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

                                            >You keep doing as she instructed, continuing to fuck her even when she becomes too messed up to talk.

                                            >Even when her legs start to convulse and her pussy all but spasms around your dick, you keep thrusting.

                                            >Only when you feel your daughter’s juices running down your thighs do you allow yourself your own release.

                                            >She can’t really talk but the satisfied moan escaping her speaks for itself.

                                            >Thick white globs of cum flood out of her when you finally pull back, running down into the bedsheets.

                                            >You’re a scumbag and a miserable father, but you can at least give her this.

                                            >A moment of pure, unreserved bliss.


                                            >You collapse next to Vinyl, drenched in sweat and bodily fluids, too tired to even think of staying conscious for another second.

                                            >By the time you look over one last time, your daughter is already asleep, a big, dopey smile spreading on her lips.

                                            >You want to tell her that you’re sorry, that you love her with all your heart, but you’re too far gone yourself already.

                                            >Someday, you’re sure of it, you’ll have to pay for it all.

                                            >The universe is going to come around with the check and it’s going to be more than you can afford.

                                            >You dream of blue-haired girls with shark smiles and sunless eyes, giggling and cackling while ripping away your flesh.


                                            >You wake up to the sound of cars rolling past your window and the warmth of the sun pricking your skin.

                                            >For a moment, you’re weightlessly lying on your bed, your head filled with nothing but blissful, leftover sluggishness.

                                            >And then it’s gone.

                                            >You can already begin to feel last night’s effects, the dull sensation of a hangover just about to gain traction.

                                            >Sitting up, you look around, testing your muscles.

                                            "Vinyl?"

                                            >Your daughter is not here anymore.

                                            >The living room is empty save for the beer bottles the girl killed yesterday and your own almost-empty fifth of Whisky.

                                            >The bathroom is similarly deserted.

                                            >Dragging yourself over to the kitchen counter, a little speck of color calls your attention.

                                            >You find a small note of colorful paper, a few lines of curly writing scribbled onto it.

                                            >'Hey Dad, thanks for taking care of me last night. Went to meet some friends, hope you don’t mind.'

                                            >Your daughter’s name sits at the bottom of the paper, next to a cutely-drawn heart with a smiley face.

                                            >Vinyl is gone.

                                            >You knew, of course, but somehow you’re just now realizing it.

                                            >Your daughter is gone, and you don’t expect to see her or hear from her for a couple of months at least.

                                            >Grabbing the note, you walk over to your cupboard.


                                            >After rummaging through the drawers for a bit, your fingers come across what you’re looking for, pulling out a single box from between your cartons of junk.

                                            >It’s a small case of painted wood with a single brass hinge at its center.

                                            >The word 'Dad' is written on top of it in crude letters.

                                            >She made it in art class or something.

                                            >You find a series of small papers inside, none bigger than a post-it note.

                                            >All of them bear your daughter’s handwriting.

                                            >You put the newest one inside, gently tucking it between its predecessors.

                                            >They all carry the same message, left by Vinyl after the nights she spent at your apartment, every single one of them testament to another of your failures.