My Life, My Story

My dad. Where to begin? Rude, selfish, arrogant, controlling, stupid, and violent. And to be honest, that's being nice.

I think the problem started when I was about 6, although I was probably younger, I just can't remember.

My parents argued a lot then, and they still do now, actually. The first big argument started, though, when I was 7, and was also the first act of violence I had seen my father show to someone, or in family, at least. It was just the usual, something that shockingly, as a child, I had thought was normal.

Yelling, screaming, and the occasional banging of tables, or smashing of glasses. Just like any others night. But then something different - yelps. Yelps of pain. And, like a worried child, I stupidly peered through the banisters to see what had happened.

He had hit her. My dad, who always, always, always, without fail, professes his love to my mum the morning after an argument, telling her he didn't mean it, that he would never hurt her, or the kids, had hit her. He struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

A giant hand mark was left there, shining so, so red in the light. My mum started crying, weeping, and like a child who had only ever seen her smiling happily, I found that hard to bear. Then he saw me.

He yelled at me to 'Come down the stairs this instant,' but I was so shocked, so scared, so afraid, and I ran.i ran, then I hid, just like I used to when we played hide and seek, but this time, no one came to find me.

The next morning, it was all forgotten. The mark on my mother's face was there no longer, but I couldn't ever forget what it looked like, not even if I tried.

Years on now, and I still hate my father. They still argue, but lately he has been telling me, 'It's your fault. You have no friends, you're ugly, you're fat, you stink, and we'd be better off without you." Because I'm older, I feel that I have a right to talk back to him, tell him what's what. Right? But no, I can't, I've been down that road before, and I'm not doing it again. It hurt too much. Really, it did.

I know it's not me. My mum, who I love so much, with all my heart, tells me it isn't. I believe her. She's never been anything but truthful. So me, my mum, and my brother, all carry on, bearing this weight on our shoulders that I believe no one should ever have to carry.

That is my story. And one day, I hope someone can teach him what he's been doing is wrong.
HazelBabe HazelBabe
Sep 9, 2012