Just as her mother had warned, it had warped him like a piece of wood left out in the summer sun. She didn’t know how or why, but the proof was clear for her to see. He reeked of what he’d been drinking, and what he’d been drinking had taken over. Her father was now a vessel for something else. It was a concept she couldn’t quite fathom, but if she had to guess, she guessed it was a bit like being a zombie—half dead and half alive—here but not really. It was her father, yet he was hollow, void of the goodness and love she usually felt sweating out of his pores whenever he held her close. Swallowing her as if he were an infinitely large pocket, his fingers pinch into the skin of her wrists so hard she’s sure he’ll draw blood. Glancing down, she sees the blood from her bitten lip has stained her nightie. It’s a new nightie, too, and it’s now ruined. In this situation, though, it seems a moot point. Pleading with the thing that’s supposed to be her daddy, she tries shaking herself free, but it’s no use. Opening his mouth, a wheezy, rattling sound escapes his belly. The stench of the drink is as sharp as glass, and the sounds from inside of him shake like the rattling of bones in a crypt of someone long dead.