My brother had a cast on his leg at the time. I can't remember if he fell off his dirt bike or what. There had been some tension between Dad and him all day. As usual, Dad made it very clear that he didn't think a whole lot of his son. Our dad worked in a factory, so he had this huge wad of keys that he carried around with him. He had the keys in his hand, yelling at my brother about some unknown offense. My brother got scared and started running away from Dad down the hall. Enraged, Dad whipped the keys as hard as he could into the back of my brother's thigh just above his cast. My brother screamed in pain and ran into his room.
I ran into my bedroom and locked the door, hoping that would be the end of it. I soon learned that hoping for the violence to end in that house was the ultimate exercise in futility. I turned on my stereo, cranked the volume and huddled cross-legged on the floor, shaking like a leaf. I listened to the music and let it wrap around me, singing along, slowly calming myself down...
Blood curdling screams ripped through me, cruelly snapping me back to reality. I scrambled to my feet and shot out the door, nearly running into my Dad...and his shotgun. I turned my head and looked into my brother's room. He was on his bed trying to back himself into the corner as far as he could go, tears streaming down his cheeks, terrified out of his mind. I looked back at our dad. What kind of a man pulls a shotgun on his only son?
I had gotten so used to seeing such horrific things that I had almost become passively accepting of it to the point that I functioned in a dreamlike state. I was no longer a child; I was a mediator...a hostage negotiator. "Dad, you don't want to do this" I said quietly. "Please, put the gun down." He was sweating profusely, trembling with rage, making sounds that told me he was really about to lose it. Mom came down the hall and attempted to help me reason with him. We finally managed to get him to back off. Mom took the rifle and put it away somewhere out of sight, and Dad did what he always did; he got in the car and left.
Along with the deep hatred that began to fester inside of me towards my father came an analytical side. What in the hell happened to this man that he would be so out of control? Was it really just the alcohol? There had to be a lot more to it than that... I started attempting to pick everything apart in my mind, note it, categorize it, explain it. I so desperately needed to understand. I needed to know why.
On the rare occasions that he wasn't being a total asshole for one reason or another, I tried to get him to talk. He never wanted to talk about his family. All I managed to get over the years were cryptic bits and pieces, a crumb tossed here and there. Sometimes he would just blurt significant things out, only to become tight-lipped if I attempted to ask him any further questions about it. I was trying to be someone he could open up to, someone he could trust; someone like his daughter. He didn't want me. He didn't want any of us.
My grandpa died of cancer before I was even born. Dad blamed the local hospital for not catching it in time. Apparently, they had missed the tumor in his chest. Grandpa wasted away until he was so weak and helpless that Dad had to carry him to the bathroom or any other room he needed to go to. He had become Grandpa's caregiver, and Dad admitted that seeing his dad that way was extremely hard on him. I so get that now that I am in the exact same position with Mom. It is one of the hardest things a child will ever have to face. I wish everyone could just grow old gracefully and pass away peacefully in their sleep one day. No one should ever have to watch their loved ones suffer until they die.
Grandma passed away when my dad was only three years old, leaving grandpa with seven kids to raise. Dad didn't have to tell me that he was the youngest...my brilliant powers of deduction helped me figure that out all by myself (:s). Having absolutely no clue what the birth dates for my aunts and uncles are, I am assuming that some of them had to be old enough to help Grandpa with the younger children after she was gone.
From what I understand, Grandma knew that she was sick and didn't say anything to Grandpa about it. When he finally found out, he was enraged that she hadn't told him. That couldn't have made things easy for him or the children to deal with, and it is very true that children will live what they learn. Grandpa had a temper and was prone to physical violence. Exactly what went on in that house after Grandma died, only the kids would know...and all of them are gone now.
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