Daddy Didn't Love Me // Lawlorff

One

"Sam! Get your fat ass in here, now!" shouted my father, sprawled out on the couch with one hand on the TV remote, another wrapped around a bottle of beer.

I cringed before cautiously making my way into the room, fearful that he would throw another bottle at me. It was all a little fucked up, to be honest, my situation. He never truly had cared about me, I knew that for sure, but I never understood the extent.

When my mother died, I was just a day old. I hardly knew her, and sometimes I wish that I had died instead of her. I don't deserve this hell I'm in, but there is also some days that I believe my dad is right about what he calls me.

I stood at the edge of the couch, and balled up my fists. It had always been a bad habit, my palms vigorously sweating whenever I had to face my own father, and quite a tragedy at that.

"Get me another beer, you worthless fat pig."

I bit my lip and fought back the tears. You would think that with the constant insults, I would get used to them. Well, that didn't work out. Instead of getting him a beer, I rushed off to the bathroom and purged. I did this very often back then, fearful of my father's words. I pulled up the tail of my shirt and looked at my scarred stomach. A few ribs were poking out, and I smiled weakly at that.

"Hurry, you fucking imbecile!"

I let my shirt fall back over my tattered hips and ran back to the refrigerator. There was nothing there. Shit.

I walked slowly toward him. "There are no more, dad..."

He spat at me. "You don't deserve to call me that. I don't want you as a son. You killed your mother, you know that, right? You killed her. She died giving birth to you. "

Tears flooded my eyes.

"Don't... don't say that," I whispered.

"Well it's true, you ugly faggot! Now, fucking go to the liquor store and get me some more!"

"No," I said.

He jumped up and wiped his mouth from the alcohol.

"What the fuck did you just say to me, freak?"

"I said no," I repeated, lifting my chin up and scowling at the monster he had become.

He lunged toward me and knocked me to the floor. I sprawled out on the ground and gently touched the blood rushing out from my cheek from the bottle's sharp edge.

I didn't regret what happened next. I picked up the bottle, and threw it at his head. He fell to the ground, and it must have hit him just right, the mixture of the blow and the alcohol knocking him clean out.

I panted a little, regained my breath, and ran. I didn't think twice. I grabbed the keys to his old Jeep from the coffee table and his wallet and ran out the door, not even bothering to close it behind me.

I knew nothing but that what was coming next would be hard for me, I would have to go into hiding, and that I absolutely could not risk the possibility of him ever finding me again.