Thursday, January 6, 2011

No Child Should Ever Have To Utter These Words...

My dad liked guns. He had a 38, a 22, and a military rifle that he got from god knows where. He slept on the couch in the living room with the pistol under his pillow. He made sure we understood full well that he kept it loaded. Most days after I got home from school, I would go straight to my room and lock the door. I would listen to music for hours on end, singing along, losing myself in the lyrics and pretending I was anyplace else but there...anyone else but me. I used to be a really good singer too, but was too self-conscious to do anything about it.

It was on one such occasion that I heard my dad raising his voice out in the kitchen. My heart sank. I reached for the volume and turned my stereo up louder to drown out what was sure to come. Of course, I could always still hear enough of what was going on to monitor whether or not it had escalated to the point that my assistance was needed. I was the one in the family who 'fixed' everything; smoothed everything over, calmed everyone down. I could always tell by my mom's voice exactly when Dad crossed the line from yelling to violence. This time, there was a tone to her voice that sent chills up my spine. I couldn't get out of my room fast enough. I ran down the hallway into the kitchen and froze.

Dad had Mom pinned with her back to the refrigerator, his left forearm pressed tight against her neck, the barrel of his pistol flush against her left temple. Her feet were paddling wildly, her terrified eyes rolled to look towards the barrel of the gun while tears streamed down her cheeks. I will never forget that image for the rest of my days...it seared deep into my brain like a brand. I was beyond horrified; scared out of my wits, but I had to get him to take the gun off of her. His finger twitched on the trigger. "Daddy stop it, that's enough! You're hurting her!" Nothing. "Daddy! Put the gun down now!" Still nothing. "Daddy let her go!" Before I knew what was happening, he spun around and pointed the gun right in my face. Mom screamed. I stood there and waited to die. Several terrible tense moments passed as he stood there, trembling with rage, pistol aimed point-blank at my face.

He finally stormed into the living room, put the pistol away, got into the car and peeled out of the driveway. We could hear the gravel ricocheting off of the house as he sped out into the road, tires squealing furiously on the asphalt all the way down to the end of the block. I still couldn't move. I was in terrible shock. I think my mother tried to comfort me, but I don't remember feeling anything. I knew there was something seriously wrong with my dad, but exactly what that was or why, I couldn't possibly tell you. I went into the living room and pulled the pistol out from under the pillow. I popped open the cylinder to check the chambers to see if it was loaded. Five bullets gleamed within. The empty chamber was past the hammer. Had he pulled the trigger, he would have killed us.I started to shake with more than fear...I shook with rage. I dumped the bullets into my hand, replaced the cylinder and put the pistol back just as I'd found it.

I didn't care what would happen when he discovered the bullets were gone. I didn't care if he ever found out that it was me. I was furious that he made it necessary for me, his daughter, his child, to ever utter such horrific words as "Daddy put the gun down", furious that he would ever put me in a position to see my mother with a gun to her head, furious that it was necessary to know how to empty the chamber of a fucking handgun to keep him from blowing our brains out. I wanted my childhood back, my innocence back; I wanted my daddy. This man couldn't possibly be my daddy. My daddy would protect us and love us, not point loaded guns at his own wife and daughter until they pissed their pants in terror. This man was a monster, and I was the monster's daughter.

I clutched my head in agony. No! Hell would freeze over before I would ever allow myself to be like him. I would do whatever it took to never walk the same path. I would never be a drunk. I would never be physically violent unless I had no choice but to protect myself. It tore my heart out to know that he would never be the kind, loving, supportive, nurturing father who would provide a safe haven for me from the rest of the world. I wanted him to hug me, ruffle my hair, encourage me and be proud of me. This man scared the living hell out of me, and it showed...

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