Status: updates = inconsistent :")
Scream For Me
Three
School was the bane of my existence. If there was anything I hated more in the world, it was school. I hated the people; they didn't understand. I hated the teachers; they tried to understand. And most of all, I hated that it was the one place I could escape to. School was welcomed after some special nights. I hated that. I hated that the one place I wanted to get away from was the one place I could only go to.
He blamed me for my mother's death. She died during childbirth; she died through my birth. I often heard him mumbling about how excited he'd been to have me; however, other times he'd scream about how I took away the one thing he had, the one thing he truly loved.
"What about me?", I wanted to ask. "Don't you love me?"; I wanted to scream it in his face.
Going to school the morning after was torture. He never left any visible marks and I'd opted out of Physical Education as soon as it was possible. It was almost as if he'd planned our nights together. He'd start out gentle, slow and worked his way up to harsh, strong, fast. Once, I'd thought it was as if we were having sex, except he was just physically hurting me.
School made me realize the worst problem of it all: I still loved him.
He was my father.
He nurtured me. He raised me. He made me who I am. He taught me what I know. He was there for me. He stood behind me whenever I'd stumble back. He'd push me back up with a force that no one else had.
I loved him for it. I loved him as if he was Brady Hawkins's father: stereotypical American dad. He had his flaws, we'd all seen them. But, the fact was, he was still the best dad around.
School reminded me how utterly insane I probably was. I loved the man who abused me, hit me for no reason, who verbally attacked me when he felt like it. I didn't care; as long as he noticed me, I was OK. As long as he continued to care for me, I was OK. He was OK. Our life was OK.
And then he went and killed himself.
It was all the school would talk about. I was tempted to scream at them, tell them off, and yell at them for staring. I wanted to disappear. People who had never been aware of my existence now pointed me out in the hallways, in the classrooms, everywhere.
To me, it was worse than the worst beating I'd ever had.
He blamed me for my mother's death. She died during childbirth; she died through my birth. I often heard him mumbling about how excited he'd been to have me; however, other times he'd scream about how I took away the one thing he had, the one thing he truly loved.
"What about me?", I wanted to ask. "Don't you love me?"; I wanted to scream it in his face.
Going to school the morning after was torture. He never left any visible marks and I'd opted out of Physical Education as soon as it was possible. It was almost as if he'd planned our nights together. He'd start out gentle, slow and worked his way up to harsh, strong, fast. Once, I'd thought it was as if we were having sex, except he was just physically hurting me.
School made me realize the worst problem of it all: I still loved him.
He was my father.
He nurtured me. He raised me. He made me who I am. He taught me what I know. He was there for me. He stood behind me whenever I'd stumble back. He'd push me back up with a force that no one else had.
I loved him for it. I loved him as if he was Brady Hawkins's father: stereotypical American dad. He had his flaws, we'd all seen them. But, the fact was, he was still the best dad around.
School reminded me how utterly insane I probably was. I loved the man who abused me, hit me for no reason, who verbally attacked me when he felt like it. I didn't care; as long as he noticed me, I was OK. As long as he continued to care for me, I was OK. He was OK. Our life was OK.
And then he went and killed himself.
It was all the school would talk about. I was tempted to scream at them, tell them off, and yell at them for staring. I wanted to disappear. People who had never been aware of my existence now pointed me out in the hallways, in the classrooms, everywhere.
To me, it was worse than the worst beating I'd ever had.
♠ ♠ ♠
comments? crits?