I felt completely exiled from my own heart.Ībout death, and my unsleeping thoughts had turned to this, knowing my father and I would be attending mass in the morning. The furniture glowed in the golden braids of moonlight IĮmptiness of my bedroom and cry until dehydrated. I felt dead inside, trapped in the mugging darkness with the feeling that I’d never escape, laugh or be free. Laid there listening to the cold rain smack the roof. I went to bed with blood running down my back. Passed out, or he’d find some reason to beat on me before that occurred. Gone one of two ways: He’d just mumble himself to death until he finally He sank back into his throne and began to inhale the Bloody Marys that myīruised and beaten mother brought to him. Tears ran uncontrollably from my unbelieving eyes. “What are you looking at? Go get your mother a cold cloth,” he screamed at me.Īnd poured some chilling water into a face cloth. Like a lifeline from the outside world, a place where I imagined people laughing occasionally. Receiver of the phone and pummeled until it exploded into piercing shards Her face was dead and bloodied, all terror and fear had beenīeaten out and replaced with an empty acceptance. I watched in helplessįear as the tears from her eyes were smacked across the room, splashing Her skull into the wall, breaking her glasses. He cornered my mother in the kitchen and I watched as he pounded Was cold, so he went off on a tear - smashing things and swearing. Time I ever entertained the notion of killingĪround 5PM, and a solemn fire was licking the brick. It is probably such a vivid memory because it was the first There was one memory from my childhood that so scarred my brain, I imagine I’ll recall it on Would’ve been like hating God– an impossibility for a young child.Įxercise in terror: It was my father’s one day off, so he usually beganĭrinking around noon. Me for not being normal By the age of nine I had an ulcer, and a considerable amount of self-hatred. The more withdrawn I became, the more he’d attack The more he’d beat and berate me, the more withdrawn I became. Was about me that disappointed him, but for him to show me any kindness, let alone love, was impossible.Ĭycle. His hair was short, cut in a military buzz. Millwood before opting for an early retirement that enabled him to drink around He could tell you he loved you, and in an He drank everything, but I think he preferred his drinks Smoked green Optimo cigars and drank Scotch. Death hung in the airĪlong with cigar smoke and tension. Inside, the walls were yellow and smoky,Ĭovered with disease and nicotine instead of sunshine. House I grew up in was a dead-end ranch in an anonymous stretch of the suburbs constructed My father would reduce me to aĬonscious memory, a hole that could take a lifetime to fill (maybe, Value myself, it would’ve saved years (and pages) of pain. That developed in my teenage years and the self-destructive death-trip that followed was a result of his To treat me like garbage led directly to my low self-opinion. The fact that he, who I held in unquestioning esteem, chose He was my first model of perfection, strange as Childhood has killed all the faith I may have had in my own immortality…įather hated life and, being his son, I was on the receiving end of hisĮmotions on a daily basis.
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