Strife, depression, anxiety, disappointment; these are several feelings that defined your childhood. From a young age you were forced to grow-up quicker than most. You became accustomed to your chaotic life. You remember that dark and heavy morning so clearly. You were playing quietly in your room, keeping to yourself. Even at the age of seven you could feel the tension building in the small two bedroom apartment. Your father had come home drunk the previous night, but you don’t remember him ever drinking before.
Your mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a couple of weeks prior and was making several doctors’ appointments in preparation for chemo therapy. Your father was devastated and angered by her diagnosis and you assumed that is why he had been drinking. Then you remembered your age, and that you have no place to be assuming these things. As you searched through your closet looking for a desired toy, you heard your mother scream. The sound pierced your ears because you had not been used to hearing it from her. Then your father began to shout and you heard a hand hit skin. You instantly knew that your mother had been beaten; that was something you had grown immune to over the years. Two months later, your mother passed away. She lost the strength to fight only five days after your eighth birthday. Ironically, it had been a beautiful morning since you had expected it to be similar to all the rest. You and your father would have woken up and gone to the hospital, you still in your pajamas and your father in his clothes which reeked of alcohol. After that first night, your father had taken to drinking regularly. Instead of going to the hospital and sitting with your mother for one more drawn-out summer day, you went to the hospital to find the room empty. A couple of minutes later a nurse was explaining to your father that his wife had lost her fight. Two weeks later, your father got laid off from his tedious factory job. Once again, you felt the tension rise in the dimly lit apartment. Your father had never laid a hand on you and it never occurred to you that he would. That day, something about the way you had acted reminded him of your mother. You could see it in his eyes, so you kept your focus on the mushy chicken nuggets and burnt fries during dinner. Later that evening, he had been drinking and when you asked about his job, he hit you. It wasn’t firm enough to bruise your skin, but it was strong enough to injure your spirit. The next day, you walked into the apartment and saw your father passed out on the floor. This had become a normal sight to you, but this time, something wasn’t right. Panic began to rise in your stomach. You ran to his side and checked for a pulse or air… something! Nothing. You glanced at his hands; beside his left hand was an empty bottle with your mother’s name on the prescription. In his right hand was a crumpled piece of paper. It was as if his hand clenched it as the medicine raced through his blood stream, killing him. You grabbed the note and raced to the phone in a panic. As you dialed 911 and waited for an answer, you opened the note that read, “I’m sorry. –Dad.” It’s messier than his normal writing. You sit beside him, holding his pulse-less hand. Part of you hoped to feel a pulse again, but you were more thankful not to. The paramedics arrived seemingly too late. They worked quietly as a team. You heard the words, “dead on arrival,” but they didn’t faze you. Your father had been dead to you long before his body lay lifeless. You are now an orphan, and you no longer have a home or a place to go. Sound begins to dissipate and your sight begins to blur. Your thoughts begin to come back to consciousness and you realize that your chaotic life is not so bad. Comments are closed.
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