My blemished hands linger, projecting towards the rustic bolted door. The antiqueness of the pine door creaked like nails crevassing along as chalkboard. A mildew stench packed against my face, as if knocking me don in a boxing ring, but I remain subtle; my body made its way into the distresses house. As I commence to remove my leathery-ruined sneakers, an arctic chill stunned my soles; the gray cement floor obscured, on what I could distinguish, throughout the house, not even a rug [even thought is wouldn't have hurt] I leer closer to the living room to my right, the mildew smell strengthens - similar to vomit. Sever walls evidently endured much ordeal torture; brown and yellow flowers [as in the seventies] wallpaper peeled half way down from the wall, which a different emerald green sheet exposed from underneath. Clearly, wires were penalized and pulled fiercely, yet much of the wire hung, leaving a tail of taunting destruction. Chastised windows carried in a cool briskness of a winter wind, although scraps of wood were faintly nailed against the window for 'protection'. I continue to inch my way, under the saggy soggy ceiling - then I came to a halt. A man, clenching his solid hands against the chair - sat. I licked my fine lips of hesitation, "Hey, Dad." The head bore intensified bloodshot eyes, as if they could burst - propelling blood like a sprinkler. His cold, condensed, chappy lips moved, but no words replaced his breath. Silence. On the coffee table, cigarettes overflows the eating bowl, or to my dad, his 'ashtray'. Like Noah and his Ark, two of every beer cans present; not only on the coffee table, but scattered across the floor. Also, bear cans pile along the feet of my dad, making him the 'human garbage mill' [the circus hasn't excepted him, yet, but we're all crossing our fingers]. Stacks of newspapers [dates of all kinds] displayed like a child's play- fort. A significant amount of smoke shrouded the living room, killing my internal organs as I stood; yet we continued to brutalize one another by standing, and sitting, in the same room. As to brush the waves of colorful garbage to form a path, I made my way to the adjacent couch from my dad. Although we did not even own a dog, particles of hair seemed to have always been present upon the cushion; I just figured it was from the bacteria infest rats that seem to bob their heads once and a while, like the gopher game at the carnival, but there were no points for each head that is hit. With rough gestures of my right hand, I stroked the cushion clear of dust, hair, and if I was 'lucky': maggots. I clasped my hands together and sat like a preppy English schoolboy. With a fake, but also irritating, smile, my dad and I made eye contact. I tired not to make a mutilating expression, but the fight of his face, and the abhorrence of the house condition mixed with my dad's face, made it all too surreal that, I - Brian, could be stuck in such a remorse situation Bottle-cap glasses observed my presence, along with his 'dashing' mullet and rocker-goatee; my dad was your ordinary, junkie, and redneck dad. He seemed to always portray a white powder on his nose. My dad, as I explained, may not be perfect, but still is an equal half of my heart, mind, blood, and what you don't know is, I love him.