"Where's my beer damn it! Alex you shit of a son, where the fuck are my beers!? "

I stood up against the thin wall of my bedroom as his flow of curse words came barging through. Even the simple method of breathing became difficult as the second dragged by, I reminded myself to breath.

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Repeat.

I closed my eyes, dreading the silence of his voice, as the atmosphere had been replaced with harsh angry stomps, making it way toward me. Trembling, my body made a habit of pressing itself against the wall, emerging into it in responded to the awaiting, and agonizing pain that soon came with his arrival.

The door came crashing to the side, in all his glory, stood my own father, clutching his most favorite weapon called his Fist.

"Did you hear me you fucker? Where's my fucking beer? "


I kept quiet. Overwhelm with fear, my mouth and tongue had a mind of its own, it wouldn't move. Then his fist came slaughtering toward me. It came crashing down so hard, I tasted blood as my skull erupted. Gasping, I shook my head to clear it, then I met the glowering hatred in my father's eyes. I expected it, and appreciated that he hit me ahead of time so I won't have to wait for it. The suspense. The fear. The suppression.

The pain he inflicted. I couldn't take it anymore.

But what else can I do?

"You pathetic bastard answer me! " A new jolt of pain erupted in my stomach as I tumble over and silently took the abuse. On the floor, I curled up into a ball. Maybe he was right, I was pathetic.

Then, he stopped. I nervously looked up. He was holding a lamp.

"You're just like your mother! " He screamed. "That dumb old cunt! Maybe I should sent you to where she is! "

Slowly, my vision blurred. As if it was a slow motion in a film, thousand pieces of clay flew with red splotches on them, the same color paint Dad and I used to paint our house back when I was five. A smile danced on the tip of my lip before I shut my eyes. And then, the soothing blackness took over. Darkness. Painless darkness.