Daddy
My father hasn't always been the sick old man he is now. Now he's begging for a glass of water, but I remember myself begging for mercy a long time ago. I guess he forgot. But as young as I was, I didn't...
Pain, or pain?
Daddy used to scare me. Daddy used to hurt me. Daddy was a big strong man. He never spoke to me, unless there was a reason to yell at me. I told people I only loved my mum. I never told them the only reason to love her, was that she never beat me up. She never showed any sign of affection, any sign of caring about me. She hurt me much, much more. In words.
The taste of hate
Most of the time it started at the kitchen table. Daddy yelled at me. I could see red coming into the white of his eyes. He threatened me. Mummy stared at me with that amused look in her eyes. She didn't say a word. I used to run away, to another room, close the door, with my small hands trying to keep him out. He was too strong. He grabbed me, spanked me, until I could taste the hate, the taste of blood. Then he left me. Mummy never showed up to hold me, I always told myself she couldn't hear me cry. After a few minutes I tried to stop the tears, rub away some blood, cover my bruises. Then I used to go outside and play with the other children. When there were no other children, I barricaded my bedroom door from the inside and made some drawings. Most of the time I threw them away as soon as they were finished.
Losing faith
As a child, I wanted to die. The only reason I didn't, was because I wanted to become what I am now, years later. What I didn't know at the time, is that losing faith is like a scar.
It remains.
[Dit bericht is aangepast door Darkcat (22-11-2001).]
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