My life in the hands of others

Dad's home

My dad became an alcoholic when I was only 8. He wasn't going out with any women at the time, it was just him and his beer cans laying like a corpse on his smelly sofa. His eyes red, his mouth half open smelled of alcohol and cigars, his bear had grew long and had scars all over his face. He never had a stable job. One month he would work as a construction worker and then the next at gas stations trying to make ends meat. But for me, the worst part of all was that he had never looked me in the eyes with love and affection, with support, with pride that I'm his daughter. In the contrary, I remember him only staring into my soul with his long black but empty eyes only to scold me, scream at me, give me orders to bring him food and water. He used to beat me a lot but then he would shut himself in the bathroom and cry. I don't think he liked it but it was his copying mechanism. Me, on the contrary, I had been teared into pieces from a pretty young age so I was, as we say it, immune to this kind of behaviour; I continued going to his house since for me it was a place to hide from my mom's place.