I hated going home. I hated coming back and seeing the bruises on my brothers and mother’s arms and cheeks and leaving them unspoken and ignored. I hated going away to do exciting things and studying for a great degree, loving every minute of it, and leaving them to suffer in silence at home, all because of a monstrous father who believed he was the epitome of pity and selflessness when really he was a disgusting, contemptible creature who I just wanted to take a knife to and wrench from existence. When I saw my little brothers watery eyes and my mother’s nervous laughter, as she watched me gage the situation, I wanted to lose the makeshift halo above my head and go to the man who I hated more than life itself and do unspeakable things to the him, my father who I wish had never met my mother. Who I wish had never brought me into this mangled world.
I would be in the midst of unpacking, setting my comics and mementos out lovingly, and there he would be, coming in unannounced and unwelcome. And without so much as a smile or nod of recognition, there he would be, sitting and complaining about how very much worse his life had become in the past four months since I had last seen him. How the people at work were so very villainous and cruel and everyone loathed him although he had done nothing wrong. How he knew the last time my grandparent visited that they had looked at him with shame and disgust, when all he had done had been a perfect gentleman and treated them with the utmost respect by completely ignoring them and acting with complete ignorant indifference.
This would go one for hours, and every time I would try to join in on the conversation, no matter how meaningful or mundane, his booming, self-important voice would gloat and smother mine, as he continued to talk because he was oh so important, oh so important, didn’t you know? Didn’t you know this? You should know this, while you’re under his house they are his rules and his rules are that he is the only one who matters. And you must pity him, oh you must feel sorry for him. He is growing so old after all, he is so frail. It does so tire him out to throw plates at your mother and to violently strike your siblings. It is so exhausting, you don’t understand what it takes out of him. You must pity the poor creature, he tries so very hard and all you do is gaze at him with a look of utmost contempt. You render him unwanted and abject, and you’re just as nefarious as all those other people who regard him with utter disgust.
I wanted to be a better brother, better son. I wanted to keep these dear people to me safe, so they never had to see him ever again. He was rendered repulsive, the mere sight of him made me gag, like when I was a child and poured rotten milk over my cereal, taking one big, sour mouthful, only to spit it out over the stone tiles. Only to be beaten and whipped for making such a horrifying mess. I wanted to take everything he had ever done and do those tenfold to him. He would pay for hurting my precious family so, and I would be the one to enact this punishment upon him.
But for now, I had to remain calm. I would hide these problems, these urges, deep down. Down those stairs is where I will be hiding all my problems.
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt
I’ve written more stuff based off of Twenty One Pilots! You can check them all out here