Monsters Part 1
I found out recently that there is someone from my past who reads this website. He now finds himself in an unusual situation. He must face the truth.
This person raised me as my father. The truth is, he is not my biological father. I thank god I share none of his genetic makeup. The story begins.
One of my earliest memories is sitting on the bar in a tavern. I was young. So young that I really couldn’t focus on anything. I remember maraschino cherries and cheap cologne. The jukebox played loud country songs. I felt like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl. We stayed for hours. I was a star.
This tavern became my second home. Never by choice. It was where he went. Everyday.
The apartment on Lloyd Drive was where I grew up. In fear. Constant fear.
This pussy of a man would come home drunk and take out his frustrations on a child. He would beat me until he had the strength to hit no more. I remember being choked up on the wall while he laughed at me. I blacked out and was dropped onto my toy box. I woke up and crawled into the bunk bed. My sister looked at me wide eyed. “ I though you were dead” she said quietly. I tried to shush her. The monster has good ears.
Later that night, after a few more beers, he returned to the bedroom. I was asleep. Dreaming of a world without monsters. It’s funny, when there are monsters in your life your dreams are mostly of happiness and warm things.
He never awoke me gently. It was a punch or I was thrown to the ground from the top bunk. It was always in the dark. He liked to be the one to surprise with terror. The weak never work their deeds in the light. It is always in the shadows. The beatings were always loud. No neighbor ever called the police. It wasn’t done back then.
The thing I remember most was the few seconds he would take between each hit. The spittle flew as he attempted to justify his actions through the rage. It was a lesson that seemed to come from his soul. I wanted to listen. I wanted to learn. It was obviously my fault. It was in those seconds that I looked to his face for the truth. I realized that the truth lie within my actions. I would do no wrong and have no pain.
Wrong was never defined. It could be anything. It's a trap.
It would last as long as he decided. There was no magic word to make it end. If it became really bad, my mom would try to intercede. This usually resulted in her being the focus of the monster. He turned from me to her. I cringed as she then took my beating. I knew it was my fault for crying out too loudly. The next time I would protect her by not making a noise when I was punched. I tried. I really tried. Sometimes I couldn’t and I knew I had failed her.