Blog Post #8: I was Always Gunning for You, Daddy
I had a dream about him last night. It was the five of us gathered around our old dining room table, in the house that he had left us to die in. He was young, about my age now. I began to cry when I saw how handsome and perfect he was––I’d never seen him like that. His hair was that healthy brown, combed perfectly to the side, and his eyes were so bright--clear, like he had never touched a single drop of alcohol or drug in his life. I had never seen them deep ocean blue like that.
There we sat, the five of us. Each and every one of us looked perfect and young. Our skin was dewy and white, but there was a worry in my mother’s eyes and a deep sadness in my breath. It was as if she knew the words that were about to spew from his mouth even before he had barfed them out.
“We need to sell the house,” he said.
His words were confident like he had never messed any of us up. I cracked. How could he?
“Why?” I fired back.
His words began to stumble over his lies as he preached, “We need money and, frankly, we cannot afford this place.”
I'd had enough. His lies were endless and his stupidity infinite. I stood up, or more so, I lunged at him with my giant right hand pointed in the shape of a gun. It was thanks to him anyways that I had these giant hands. My long thick index and middle fingers cocked straight and my thumb pointed to the sky, I beat my words into the bone of his chest that connected his ribs from one side to the next. I corrected that bastard, as I have always done, “You mean, you need money.”
With each tap of my gunning fingers, he grew older and older, shriveling into the drunk, drug-ridden sap that I had always known him to be. His luscious hair began to thin. His teeth began to yellow, then space apart, and then some of them began to fall out. All the while, his skin grew more and more weathered. He began to smell of booze and death. I shoved my fingers harder and harder into his chest. The tears streaked harder and harder down my face. He was trying to drown my sacred place. My brother, my sister and my mother sat without making a peep as my hate ran out of my mouth, beep, beep.
I raged on, “You drank all of our money away! You selfish bastard! AND NOW YOU WANT TO SELL OUR HOUSE! How dare you? How fuckin' dare you! You’re a chicken shit of a man. You don’t make any decisions for this family. YOU left! Remember? You chose the booze, you chose those sluts, and YOU chose to walk away!”
My breath was frantic. The joints in my fingers hurt from pounding my words into his chest. I couldn’t stop, I had released the fury of my feelings and now they would not stop. I began pacing the floor, circling his chair.
Over my dead body would that bastard leave this house thinking that he had power like that. He so much as sniffled, since he was crying too, I would rip his throat out with my perfectly straight teeth. No one moved, they knew I was right and that this would be the end of Daddy Dearest’s reign over my family.
Stupid fuckin' bastard never knew what hit him.