Getting out of the house was easy . Taking little to no courage . A few quick steps and I reached the wooden door , finally packing and arranging everything I need , I made my way slowly to the car .
Innocently parked in the lot , unfortunately housing my biggest fear currently for this specific morning .
Then came the not so easy part .
The one where I had to build courage and arrange my guts to open a measly car door . I stood a few feet from it , a safe distance that could help me get a headstart should the need to run arise .
My father's unpredictability was what made him a dangerous man .
Unlinked to the rules of humanity.
So one thing I've always been prepared for was ....to run .
A skill learnt through trial and error , perfected by my day-to-day bullies .
I like to think I'm a fast runner .
If running meant avoiding every problem that sat at the bottom floor of the house being thrown at me .....then I'm a damn good runner .
Eventually I must've spaced out standing infront of the car door a few feet away , because the next moment I blinked , my dad had the window rolled down and an inpatient glare fixed on me , his fingers thrumming against the stirring wheel .
A sign his patience was running thin ....fast .
And a reminder that my father would expect a very good reason for my late-coming . If it wasn't good enough then ..... I'd simply suffer as his anger strips me of my power silently.
My father never hit me .
He couldn't.
I was too much of his baby boy .
His Angel .
A treasured possession.
My father , had a different way of punishing me .
He took away privileges .
The small choices and decisions that gave me basic control of my life .
And my privileges were everyday things.
He knew that I put more value in having control over myself because I lacked that power over everything else in my life .
His greed knew nothing of the fleeting joy found in freedom , rather the dissatisfaction of it being unable to have ownership of all it saw. Everything it encountered, it sought to own.
It stung like salt to a wound if he couldn't have everything, hence his obsessive need to have and have .
So why would there be a distinction between his son and property ? It was all effort of his work , meaning he owned it , so if anything his son was special to be equivalent to the value of what he loved .
And that didn't come easy .
When I was younger and rebelled , he took away my friends.
When I threw a fist at him one time in anger because I'd decided to protect my mother .......let's just say I never physically fought with him again .
And every other thing was a privilege her take and when I behaved for long enough in his mind , he'd give them back to me .
However , something today told me that his anger was shallow . That if I dived into his head and pushed him a bit , the waves called wrath wouldn't repel me .
Which only meant something worse .
Normally small actions like these take away my internet privilege but , he's only silent , not retorting or shouting me off . Meaning something else held more importance and demanded his attention , because he wasn't even frowning . And whatever it is must be something more troubling.
Since that's how he describes he's every thoughts these days .
" When are you gonna get in ?" He says in a calm voice , relaxing his head against the car headrest with his hands covering his eyes .
His knuckles still on the dashboard, thumping a steady rhythm against it .
After a moment of looking at him I reply " Now." Not stalling for long because I don't know how thin his patience has gotten from the moment I first saw him this morning.
I move my feet in tandem , one infront of the other , almost mechanical with how synchronised it is . I enter the car , from the other side , sliding into the passenger seat . A seat so familiar and accustomed to my body , from the countless times I've sat in it for various outings with my father .
Only my father .
"Good."
One word he says simply exhaling and sitting up straight . Hand no longer covering his eyes and fingers no longer tapping against the dashboard but now firmly gripping the steering wheel.
The car comes alive with the simple push of the key into the ignition.
He slowly reverses out of the house parking lot , moving onto the main road, never once glancing at his mirrors .
A testament to how often his preformed this simple action , now engraved into his memory , every motion that spells out how the car moves ingrained from back to front. The same way he's fists never miss my mother's face , familiar to the thrusting motion , always landing on thier target .
Once on the main road , I notice he drives a bit slower meaning he wants to talk ......now .
" What was the reason for your behaviour at the table this morning Tommy?" He calmly questions looking ahead at the road . The way he phrases that demand as an innocent question attests to his twisted manipulation.
He referred to me by my government name - the one he uses when he's pissed .
Even with his eyes on the road , I still feel his gaze pinning me to my seat . The words choked down my throat , unable to come out .
I take a deep breath in .
" I'm sorry for my behaviour this morning....dad." I add as an afterthought, probably a bad move considering he'll now assume I don't respect him and jump to the assumption that my mother was involved.
Because in his books , anything bad equals my mother's intervention.
" A formula for chaos !" He'd loudly proclaim at family gatherings, never one to whisper . He'd taught me only cowards whisper behind someone's back because they're to afraid to say it to thier face .
" You never whisper the truth , only a lie or secret . And your mother ....her failure to be my wife isn't one to keep nor is it a lie. "
Seems I was once again lost to my thoughts because he's words catch me off guard .
" I don't think sorrys going to cut it this time ...son ." He says mockingly whilst chuckling. Tilting his head for feigned guilt .
His way of covering punishment in a candy wrapper .
" I'm s-sorry ." I repeat , my voice stuttering in a way that clearly ticks my father of , as he's brows furrow . I only hope he won't do what I think he will .
He doesn't respond.
Curving around a turn in the road , and humming along to a random song on the radio , he smiles .
Turning his head towards whilst slowing at a red light ." This is a good song compared to the crap they usually play in the morning hours !" He says laughing at his own words .
But I catch the meaning in his words . 'I' gave him crap this morning and he has yet to accept my badly done apology . Simply brushing it off as if now I don't matter to him .
What a big fat lie .
Then again it's his game , I'm simply here to play it .
The robot's lights flash green and he shifts the gears , moving the car and turning once again .
We're on the main town Street for for school , Judy Str. Named after the founder of our school , Judy Macmillan an old white lady who's racism led to her believing that founding a school for white kids of the town would be good . Fortunately, they abolished that clearly biased law when slavery had ended .
Her tortured soul rest in peace .
He parks the car in front .
The engine cut of and slowly cooking . The heat inside boiling us alive ...or only me .I'm starting to turn pink , an allergic reaction I have to bring overheated .
"Oh dear! Your turning pink . Shit ! Let me open the windows !" He says panicked as if he wasn't taking his sweet time to open the windows.
My throat starts constricting and I'm getting less air in then I'd like . My vision starts blurring and I'm suddenly hunched over panting .
An ailment I've had since young , hence our relocation to this town , but that's just another big fat lie because we've always been here .
He looks at me .
Confliction shadowing his eyes .
Then finally he opens the window and in record time I'm sucking in mouthfuls of fresh air , taking faint breaths of air and shedding tears from the stinging in my throat and lungs .
Dad looks at me . Raising his hand , he gently touches my neck as if to ground me , however I think more so him . However he could likely also be checking for swelling , after he hold my neck , feeling with his fingers and applying pressure, he moves to touch my hair , caressing every strand of my red mane, tugging on them gently .
" You're okay . Papa's here boy ." He says in a low voice , barely a murmur. " Just a bit of swelling but nothing too serious your meds won't fix ."
He digs into his pocket taking out a pack of digoxin tablets , the ones I always use when I have flare ups .
" Drink one,then you start classes ." He instructs handing two pills over to me .
He took them out a bit too easy , now that I think about it . As if he knew they'd be there . He usually fumbles and panics when he always misplaces them but .....he looked prepared .
A silly thought I quickly shrug off , he probably just found them there by luck this time .
I'm his baby boy . He'd never intentionally physically harm me .
That's what it'll stay .
A silly thought .
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Sorry for not posting but writer's block plus exam season is a formula for tiredness and lack of motivation for writing but I still wanted to atleast update one book.
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