Monologues

Posted: 26 October, 2014 in Daily Droppings
Tags: , , ,

Well, my father used to hit me… Umm,

wow, that’s a bad start, isn’t it? Uh,

he didn’t… I mean I wouldn’t say I

was abused, but… He was just a

traditional sort of guy, you know?

I mean he never really hurt my mom or

my sister. He just felt that raising a hand to you was…

you know, the same way you punish your dog.

I guess that’s pretty awful

treating your children as if they were dogs and

maybe that’s worse than actually

taking a belt to them, but… I never

really resented him for it.

We had our fights just like anyone else. Well,

maybe more than most.

I scared him pretty bad once.

My sister and I were outside on the swing set

that the previous owners had built.

We were playing King of the Castle.

(You know it) Where we would try to be the first to climb up the

set and get on top of the garage from there and then stand at the top. Well

she got on up onto the roof first, but I was right behind her and before she

could reach the top, I grabbed her

by the collar and pulled her down.

Well, she landed pretty hard. Didn’t break anything mind you,

just hard

enough to knock the wind out of her

and make her cry.

Anyway, the crying

brings my father outside; And he

doesn’t do anything at first, he waits

for my mom to come out and take my sister inside, all cooing and patting her head.

He doesn’t say anything, but

I can tell by the look in his eye that he had seen the whole thing and

as soon as the women are out of earshot,

man. he lays a backhand on me like

nobody’s business. Just the hardest thing I had ever felt outta him.

Which sends me flying off the back porch and

I crack my head hard on the swing set

and cut my head open. I mean, I was

bleeding pretty good.

So I had to be taken to the emergency room.

By Him.

And the whole time.

I guess it just bothered me that he

never apologized.

I mean, I know it was an accident. I know he didn’t mean to do it, but

still, it was kind of his fault.

The whole time we’re driving there,

me crying and trying to hold my head

together with a wet dishcloth, and

he never said he was sorry. He just looked at me as if to say that it was

all my fault.

And I didn’t even care that he hit me. I didn’t care that I was in excruciating pain or that he had caused me to bleed all over my

favorite Ninja Turtles shirt.

What bothered me was that, as I sat there

in the waiting room dripping blood

onto the tile floor, cold, and scared,

and alone (he didn’t sit next to me,

by the way), simply by looking at his

face I could tell that he blamed me

for the whole damn incident.

I don’t think I ever forgave him for that.

 

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