Jack'n'Coke

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was a good day, a snowy day, but none-the-less, a good day. But it ended with me laying fetal position, rocking on the cold, hard, wooden floor, holding my head, lip bleeding, heart racing, cheek burning, hair messy, and knuckles smashed and bruised. I was crying, screaming - angry - thinking, scared - most of all, scared. I was thinking about how this could have happened, what did I do to make this happen? I mean, yeah, I blamed myself, I was told at a young age that all "bad things" happen for a reason - reasons being something of my fault. Therefore, this was my fault. It was my fault that I was laying there like that. It was my fault that he was standing before me, with that nasty look in his eyes, licking his nasty yellow-stained teeth like a wild beast. It was my fault. That's that, no questions asked.

He hit me. He fuckin' hit me. Well, that part's not surprising, what surprised me is that usually when he hits me he stops after a minute or so, and you can see it in his eyes. You can see that he knows of what he's becoming. He knows that he's just that one step closer to becoming the one person he can't stand - his father. Usually, when he hits me, he stops and helps me up and - he never apologizes, like I said, I can see it in his eyes, he doesn't need to voice his apology - he sits back on the couch and finishes his online poker tournament. But this time was different. No hint of sorrow, guilt or pain in his eyes this time, but,  realization? Yes, you could tell that he'd realized what he had become - but from the anger in his voice and the force in his punch - he knew. He didn't care.

No help up. No sorry look. No sitting silently on the couch, one hand down his pants, and the other gyrating around his computer mouse, jack'n'coke, and butter-flavoured-microwave-popcorn. None of that. He stood above me for quite a while. At least as long as it took me to regain consciousness and prop my sore self against the stairwell. 

What exactly had he done to me that night? What exactly brought it on that night? It started off as a small disagreement, a small fight, y'know, nothing too serious. And then it escaladed... Way too far. I know that for sure. I yelled some stupid thing and he slapped me. Yeah, that's how it began. I yelled - what did I yell at him? I yelled and he slapped my face. I remember then, the look in his eyes at that moment, it was as if he thought it all a game, a sort of fucked-up wrestling match... or something... I punched him hard as I could, right aside from his eyebrow. That startled him, I’m pretty sure…cause then I don’t remember too much other than being hoisted up my by wrist and thrown down the small - small but quite prominent - flight of stairs, and he ran down after me - not to comfort me or help me, nah, but to drag me, by the hair, to where I last remember being - against the stairwell.