My father stumbled in through the front door, slurring explicative’s while holding an almost empty bottle of whiskey in his right hand. I stiffened but continued to sit on the couch and read my book, Speak, because I didn’t want to stand up too early. If I did it would seem like I was challenging him, but if I stood up too late it would be like I was ignoring him. Timing was crucial if I didn’t want the aftermath of his alcohol consumption.
“What’re you dooin’?” My father hollered from the front door, “You shoul’ be asleep.”
And you should have alcohol poisoning, I wanted to tell him. But instead I tried as best as I could to close my book calmly, despite the tremor in my hands, stood up slowly to make sure my wobbling knees wouldn’t give way, and took a deep breath to steady my racing heart. My face remained placid as I addressed my father, “Dad, it’s Friday night. You told me you were going to work,” I stared and waited for a response.
“You callin’ me a liar?” He accused me, pointing the hand with the bottle at me. A look came across his face and it seemed he had a better use for the bottle. His propelled his right arm forward and the bottle flew. I stood completely still and willed my knees to stop shaking but soon remembered how horrible my father’s aim was when he was drunk. I jumped as the bottle crashed on the hardwood floor at my bare feet, but I knew he was aiming higher than that. I let go of the air I’d been holding in and continued to look at my father.
“Clean it up!” My father stepped closer to me, and soon I felt his hot breath on my face. The stench of alcohol surrounded him, choking me. He shoved me and said, “Do it!”
The problem with me is that if I get mad, I lash out. But I knew better than to try and attack a six foot four, dark haired, dark eyed, drunk man. So I improvised and used my words, each one laced in poisonous venom with no remedy to cure the wounds afterwards.
Anger flashed across my father’s face like a lightning bolt. His hands flew up and shoved me into the wall. I felt a punch strike the side of my face and the pain spread throughout my jaw. I reached up and gingerly touched the point of impact, realizing everything was intact, at least for now, but my hand came back slightly sticky and red.
“You gonna clean it?” My father sneered down at me.
“No,” I replied, bracing myself for whatever was next.
I was once again shoved against the wall, but now he lifted my head and brought it down against the wall. With a sickening thump my head made contact with the wall and a sharp pain shot through my spine and the back of my head. He wasn’t done yet though, oh no. He held onto my shoulders and kneed me in the gut, causing me to lurch and curl over, my arms wrapping around my torso, sliding down to the floor. He kicked me, his feet making contact with my arms, legs and abdomen multiple times.
Suddenly it stopped and I felt the angry energy surrounding him change and shift. He lost his flame of rage and said, “I’m goin’ to bed.”
I stayed curled up as I watched him vanish down the hallway and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I pressed my palms to the wall and lifted myself up off the floor. My knees shook and my body hurt, but I knew I had to stand up and clean the glass shards. I stretched my bruised muscles as far as they would let me without wincing in pain, but being as clumsy as I am, I stumbled and stepped on one of the larger shards, cutting the bottom of my foot. Tears rose to my eyes as I hopped into the kitchen and went to the first aid drawer. The dark blue tiles of the kitchen felt cool against my right foot, the one that wasn’t cut. I held onto the gray countertop for support as I applied Neosporin and a band-aid to my wound, my hands shaking madly. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and squinted so hard another tear rolled down my cheek as I placed pressure on my wound. I slightly limped over to the pantry and grabbed the black plastic handled broom and matching dustpan then went back into the living room where the glass was. I swept up the shards and threw them into the garbage can in the kitchen, but kept the one that cut me separate.
I held it in my palm for a moment, staring at the slightly bloodstained clear piece of glass. I tossed it into the garbage and leaned my back against the wall, sliding down it again. I pressed the palms of my hands to my forehead and let the tears flow, sobbing quietly. I’d been going through this abuse for years now, ever since my mother died in a car crash. My father had always been an alcoholic, but when he’d come home trashed my mother would hold me close and we’d stay locked in my bedroom with the T.V. on loud watching Barney and Friends. I began to cry harder, wishing for the life of me that my mother was still there to hold me and comfort me, but I knew that would never happen again. I was fifteen now, and that was ten years ago. My father’s temper had always been bad, and when he was drunk his patience wore thin so he decided beating me was the best release of anger.
But tonight was the last night. I swore to it, even though I’d promised myself the time before this was the last time, and even the time before that was supposed to be the last. On this night though, I really meant it. I knew I would never escape my father if I didn’t leave now, for the growing years would only make his alcoholism and temper worse. I stood back up again, wincing but strong, and walked down the dark hallway into my room. I gazed around at the awful reminder of my childhood. My father hadn’t gotten the memo that I was fifteen yet, so I was stuck with ballerina pink everything and stuffed animals galore. I grabbed my very plain black backpack, filled with a few changes of clothes, my spare toothbrush, and the other essentials, while checking my ‘Emergency Get Away’ fund and grabbing all one hundred and two dollars it contained. I didn’t earn a lot of money and still had yet to get a job, but I knew I’d find my way around. I stood in the doorway and looked around one last time before closing my door quietly behind me.
I walked down the hallway a bit more to my father’s room and opened the door, leaning against the door frame. I saw him sprawled out on the white comforter of his bed, snoring. I knew he wouldn’t hear me, but it felt good to say my goodbye.
“I hate you,” I started off calmly, “I hope you burn in hell for what you’ve been doing with your life. Hurting me will not bring mom back! When you figure out where you went wrong, I’ll be long gone,” I looked at him for a moment more and then turned and closed the door behind me.
I continued walking to the front door, but paused and looked about me. I became overwhelmed by a feeling of nostalgia; I spied the stain next to the couch where I had spilled my apple juice and started crying, but my mom had just sung to me and told me it was okay. I saw the place where I’d taken my first steps, not that I remembered, but mom had always told me it was in between the old cream couch and the dark wood coffee table. As I felt a new wave of tears come to my eyes, I shoved the memories down to the bottom of my heart. I felt my heart picking up speed and my knees begin to shake again as my hand held onto the doorknob. I felt my hands tremble while holding on to the knob, but slowly turned it anyways. I held on for a moment more before walking out into the cool night air.
“Goodbye,” I whispered, “I hate you.”