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Drunken Dads, Scared Moms, and One Adoring Child

I sat in the dark shadow of my Father. His elongated body’s shadow was able to cover my immensely compact body. There on the opposite side of the room sat my Mother. Shriveled up in fear she watched as my Father’s hand came down on my pale white skin. I myself was not afraid of him, I knew I couldn’t be, my Mother was worried enough for the both of us.

The violence never seemed to cease in my family. There was always someone’s blood being spilt on the floor. Be it my Mother’s or my own. The physical pain I constantly endured wasn’t anything compared to the mental pain I felt when Daddy hit Mommy. Her bright blue eyes would squeeze tightly shut, her small body would clench into a ball. She would stay stiffly in that position until she was sure he was gone. She’d whimper when she stood up, knowing not to let the streaming blood hit the floor. She’d run through the pain into the kitchen to retrieve band-aids and rubbing alcohol. Maybe her sewing kit if the beating happened to hurt her to the point of stitching herself up.

Soon after the beatings would occur she’d pick me up and hold me, repeating her comforting phrase, “Allie, you’ll never live a life like my own, I’ll die before that could happen. I’ll do anything to protect you. I’ll kill for you… I love you.”

The next beating occurred on Christmas Eve. My Dad swung at my face, missing, only making contact with his finger tips. Engulfed in rage he swung again, then a shot rang out. The long bullet cut through his chest like a knife cutting into butter. He fell to the floor, and behind him was Mother, tears streaming down her face. “Allie, I told you I wouldn’t let this happen to you again.” My eyes filled with tears, my body fell numb. “Mommy,” I shrieked, “it was only an accident! Daddy didn’t mean to!” She shook her head, “No Honey. He knew what he was doing. I promise you he did…”





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