Breaking Down the Door

By
I was 12 years old that night. It was noisy and rough. My father had been drinking again. When he drank he was like a land mine, the slightest annoyance would make him explode. That night it was my mom that set him off. You see, she took too long to get him a beer, and the mine was tripped. He was drunken rage. He got up and started yelling and screaming at my mom. My father had a knack for controlling himself while in front of us. However, behind closed doors he would taunt and abuse my mom to no end. He wouldn't stop until fell he asleep.
There were many nights before just like this one. He got angry; then, he calmed down quickly. After we fell asleep, that's when the abuse began. This pattern of torment had revealed itself to me. I began to keep track of all the incidents. It eventually got to the point where it happened every night. That was it, I was tired of watching this abuse happen again, again, and again. I took action. `
Every night I took a post outside my parents bedroom with a phone in hand and waited, usually until 2:00am. I sat outside with the door cracked open just enough so that I could see what was going on. Nothing happened for two or three nights. Then it happened during the week before Christmas. He would never come near her for the rest of his days. I heard him yelling at her, calling her names, just verbally crushing her. Then he punched her square in the left eye and sent her sprawling onto the bed. That was it I had seen enough, so I threw the door with surprising strength. CRACK! The sound of the door slamming into the wall stunned my father, and at the same time scared him. The look on his face gave me pleasure, and I turned that wonderful emotion into a fearful and powerful one, anger. With that newfound power I began to yell at him, words and curses seemed to just flow out of my mouth. I wanted to mentally damage him. Then I raised the phone like it was a scepter of power, and I sure as hell yielded it. I told him that if he threatened us again, I would call the police and have him arrested. That finished him. We left the next day, and we went to my grandparents house. A few years later my mom came to me, and she told me how thankful she was to have a son like me who would stand up for what was right without fear. When she said that to me I began to cry with joy, knowing that I had created a better life for me and my family and myself.
No twelve year old should have to grow up that fast
I did.





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