Fighting Chance

Fighting Chance [02]

HER VOICE TREMBLED WITH HER NEXT WORDS. “I’M CALLING THE POLICE.”

I froze. I had no idea what else to do.

“No . . .” I repeated, my voice barely above a cracked and strangled whisper.

Mums hands started to quiver even more and I saw her start to shiver. Her whole body was shaking. The tears coming from her eyes seemed to come even faster now that she wasn’t trying to push them back. Her breathing became laboured, like she had just run a marathon.

She was letting herself go. She didn’t care if she looked weak. Not that she did. To me it was a sign of just how brave she was. She had held on for so long. Everybody had to have a release, didn’t they? Everybody had to let go at some point?

Nobody could hold on forever.

Not even the strongest people. And my mum was definitely the strongest person I had ever met. To the casual observer my father looked the strongest out of all of us because he was tall and bulky.

He wasn’t fat, he was built for stealth.

But he was feeble in my eyes. Where mum and I relied on nothing but ourselves to keep us standing, relied on our physical and mental power, he relied on his alcohol. Without it, he would be nothing.

Alcohol was his vice.

It was his portal to a better life. An escape. Mum and I didn’t have that. Our dreams were the only way out, but even they offered little comfort. My subconscious was plagued with nightmares and mental images of my father, his face, his eyes, his fist, and I had to assume my mothers’ were too.

He was a cruel man, but there was no denying that I loved him. I couldn’t not love him. He was my father. He created me, he brought me to life. Without him I wouldn’t even be alive.

I had him to thank for everything, I had him to thank for nothing.

 I knew my mother felt the same way. She fell in love with him at a very young age. Just because he had changed over the years didn’t mean that she could just fall out of love with him.

Once you’re in, you’re in for good, is what she used to tell me.

That was as close to a fairy tale as I ever got told. And even that was short lived when he used to come in and reef my mother out by the hair for talking to me and telling me such ‘stupid stories.’

 If that was love, than I promised myself I never wanted it.

And still to this day I didn’t want it. Loving my father was inevitable, as was loving your husband in mum’s case. Which is why we had never ever rang the police or told anybody about what we put up with at home.

Dad was the one with the well- paying job, so we had to respect him.

He was the one that bought all our supplies and food, so it was our job to cook for him and have it ready on the table by the time he got home, if he decided to even come home. He was the one that worked hard to get the money, so we had no right to question how he spent it.

He was the one who put a roof over our head, so it was our responsibility to clean what was under it.

He paid for the electricity and water, so it was only fair that we used it when we were told we were allowed to. He was the one who spent his money on beds, so it was his right to decide where we slept and if we got to sleep on them.

He owned the house, so we had no right to complain when he locked us in a room and left us there over night.

…Right?