My Father – Part One
The first time I remember truly wanting revenge was when I was five years old. It was Christmastime and our living room was cozy with the fireplace blazing, Rudolf on the TV and my mother and I drinking cups of hot chocolate, watching the prancing reindeer on TV. My father was nowhere to be seen, but it didn't bother us. I giggled at something in the movie, wiggling my toes deeper into my dog's thick, shining fur.
Silver. That was my dog's name. He was a purebred Alaskan Malamute, similar to Huskies in many ways. Silver was my best friend. My only friend. I loved Silver with my entire being. Every fiber in my young body was devoted to that dog.
My father soon walked in, angry, as was usual. I had become accustomed to my father's depressive mood swings and had learned to avoid him when he was in such a state. Silver, who had only been with us for half a year at the time, simply did not understand. He couldn't have.
Silver wasn't supposed to be in the house that day. But it was snowing outside, and my mother and I thought that we might as well clean him off and bring him inside the house so he could warm up. My father however, hated the idea and grew very angry with all of us. He switched off the TV and yelled at my mother and I for a few minutes, making me want to cry, but I knew that he took that as a sign of weakness. A sign of something he despised more than he despised me.
Then, he tried to make my huge, lazy, at the time, sleeping dog go outside, but Silver didn't wake up, and my father began raging. I grew scared and started crying, whimpering and knowing what was coming. He headed over to the fireplace, and looked through the different instruments we had sitting there. He selected the sharpest tool, the one he used to turn over logs, and smirked cruelly to himself. As he stuck the poker into the fire, my mother tried to stop him and I frantically tried to awaken my only friend.
The man that I called my father paid my mother's words and my whimpered pleas no mind though. He simply shoved me out of the way, sending my into a table leg and began to hit my dog, my only friend, with the burning hot metal. Silver yelped and I screamed, feeling my friend's pain. My dog scampered out the open door, whimpering with his tail between his legs. And my dad stood there with the red-hot poker in his hands, laughing.
Maybe he heard my cries, I'm still not sure why he turned around, but he did and got mad as he saw me cowering under the glass table, rocking back and forth and sobbing quietly. He kind of brandished the poker at me, chuckling a little as I scooted as far away from him as I could, hitting a wall and trying to shrink into the corner.
He laughed again as he bent down and saw me, my eyes wide and fearful, a thought of being next openly reflected in them. He stood up and walked away, shelving the instrument and leaving the house.
Anger coursed through my small body, and my frame shook from the hatred burning inside of me, just wanting to get out and hit something. But I knew my small frail wrists couldn't do any damage, not just yet, so I sat there, knowing that someday, I would get my revenge.