What is the purpose of alcohol? To tell the truth, it really doesn’t have a purpose. All it brings to the table is an aggravated and bitter mood. To say the least many are dependent on it and quite frankly, it’s pathetic.

Every other weekend I visit my dad and stepmom, but in the summer they get two weeks for vacation. We took a vacation to Tennessee and on the way back my father wanted to split up the drive so we got a hotel room at the Red Roof Inn in Kentucky. We had gone out to one of the popular pizza places that had Detroit style pizza. Detroit style pizza has the sauce on top of the pizza so the pepperonis don´t burn in the oven. Next door there was an a lazer tag business that we had gone to before which was a lot of fun and enjoyable. I thought in my mind that we might end our vacation on a good note but little did I know that I was wrong.

That night both of them had been drinking at dinner, already the situation was set up for a hurtful scenario, then the arguing began. When my dad and stepmom drink together, it sets up for an angered situation. There was arguing ever since we had left dinner, all the way back to the Red Roof Inn. Normally I would stereotype any hotel that had the word ¨inn¨ contained in its name, the first thing that comes to my mind when I think ¨inn¨ is roaches, bedbugs, and a dirty bathroom. Little did I know that the hotel was the last thing I would have to worry about. When we pulled up to the hotel I could still hear remnants of the conversation, ¨YOU CAN´T DRIVE!¨ and ¨IF I´M SUCH A BAD DRIVER WHY DON´T YOU DRIVE!¨ As soon as we exited the truck, the Kentucky air flowed swiftly through my body as I took deep, long, breaths. My dad lowered the tailgate and, told me, ¨Climb up in there and help me unload.¨ As I climbed into the bed of the truck the rough surface of the truck bed rubbed up against my knees. I looked like a dressed up snowman as I carried our luggage into the hotel. A big revolving door welcomed me as I entered, and to my left there was a lounge area and a long wooden table with some older men and women engaged in a conversation. To the left there was the main desk where my step mom was currently checking in. Straight ahead was and ice and vending machine with the elevator located to the left of the two machines. There were two long mysterious hallways that each had a stairwell attached on the end of them. Our room was located on the 3rd floor and when I reached the room I took the key card that read Red Roof Inn. I crept inside the room, expecting to find cockroaches and trash on the floor. It was actually quite a nice room, there were two beds, a t.v., a fridge, and another little section of the room had a coach and a desk. The carpet was a brown/green color, and a little bathroom was to the right of the entrance to the room. I enjoyed my five minutes of peace in the room, until I heard the scolding voices of my dad and stepmom. 

It was complete chaos. Screaming and arguing filled the whole state of Kentucky as the fight broke out. My dad had been hit in the head several times, my stepmom hadn’t been touched. I had managed to slip through the door and escape with my two dogs, Bubba and Kit. I rushed down to the lobby with my two dogs trailing behind me. The man working the desk in the lobby had called the cops. I decided that it would be a better idea to go back up to the room and talk to the cop to try and figure out a solution to the argument. On the way up, residents at the inn had opened their doors and given me looks of empathy and comfort.

I was in a deep melancholy that night in the Red Roof Inn, I felt different than everyone I knew, and everyone around me. Nobody will ever know how I felt that day, nobody can ever relive that experience and feel exactly like I did. When I think about this, I know that maybe some people can relate to having a similar experience, but our feelings will always be different because we are different people. This unrelatable feeling makes me feel different. Then it occurred to me, that all throughout my life, I would always have this experience with me. I can never reverse it, I can never make it disappear. When someone in the future asks me what I remember about my dad and stepmom, this experience will come to mind, and that’s what scares me more than anything, the bad memories of my father.

These were the thoughts racing through my head as I walked up to our room, the inn didn’t seem comforting anywhere, it seemed like I was walking to my doom. When I got up to the room the cop who had been called pulled me aside, he asked “Son, has your dad ever hurt you?” I responded,”Physically no, but mentally he has.” These were the words that stick in my head to this day. It wasn’t fair that I was scared of someone who was supposed to guide me through my life. As a father, my dad was supposed to be there for me, my stepmom was supposed to be that mother figure for me when I wasn’t with my mom. Instead, they had made fools of themselves, and created a cut that could never be sealed shut.

As the night rolled on, me and my father moved all of our stuff from our hotel room, to another room downstairs. I had to go with my dad because, legally he had custody of me. What tops this whole entire event off, is that this exact scenario had happened two times before. Me and my dad, had left our house to stay in a motel two times before. Alcohol blurs and corrupts the truth, this is what I believe. Hurtful and angered scenarios are prone to happening when alcohol is involved, this I believe...