Even Though
Even though I am cowering under the covers and whimpering like the frightened child I’m called, I can still hear the sound of the leather strap coming for me
Coming for me so fast it is almost like a sharp intake of breath
Even though I have my hands over my ears and my whimpering little-lost-puppy noises are getting louder, I can still hear the sound of shrieks echoing through my head.
Even though I am curled up in a little ball, safe and sound on a bed, I can still hear his voice.
"Good for nothing. . .little shit. . .I'll make you suffer!" His voice is more threatening than a drill sergeant.
My body shudders as if it's cold, but the weather is hot August, too impossible for me to be cold. My fingers are digging into my skin as I hear the sound of leather being brought down and smacking against skin.
Again and again and again. . .
"No!" I scream and bolt upright.
But as I look around the room, I see no one there. I hear nothing. The screaming, the strike of leather on skin, everything has been cut to a dead silence.
I curl myself into a fetal position and begin to let it all sink back in.
My father had been beating me, yelling at me that I was nothing. He had been hitting me with his favorite tool: a leather belt. He didn’t expect me to pull out the gun. I didn’t expect myself, either.
But I did.
And I shot him. Eight times to be exact.
And he went down, blood flowing out of his body and onto the floor.
Yes. Reality finally came back to me.
I had killed my father.
And he deserved it.
Coming for me so fast it is almost like a sharp intake of breath
Even though I have my hands over my ears and my whimpering little-lost-puppy noises are getting louder, I can still hear the sound of shrieks echoing through my head.
Even though I am curled up in a little ball, safe and sound on a bed, I can still hear his voice.
"Good for nothing. . .little shit. . .I'll make you suffer!" His voice is more threatening than a drill sergeant.
My body shudders as if it's cold, but the weather is hot August, too impossible for me to be cold. My fingers are digging into my skin as I hear the sound of leather being brought down and smacking against skin.
Again and again and again. . .
"No!" I scream and bolt upright.
But as I look around the room, I see no one there. I hear nothing. The screaming, the strike of leather on skin, everything has been cut to a dead silence.
I curl myself into a fetal position and begin to let it all sink back in.
My father had been beating me, yelling at me that I was nothing. He had been hitting me with his favorite tool: a leather belt. He didn’t expect me to pull out the gun. I didn’t expect myself, either.
But I did.
And I shot him. Eight times to be exact.
And he went down, blood flowing out of his body and onto the floor.
Yes. Reality finally came back to me.
I had killed my father.
And he deserved it.