Happy Ending

Daddy

Five years later, when I was ten, I watched as mom was laid in the ground.

She had cancer. A demon just as bad as alcohol. She had fought well. Dad had even gone sober to help her out. Dad when sober was quiet, but nice. He had no brothers or sister. Neither did mom. Both of their parents were dead, as well. So it truly was just dad and I. He cried at mom's funeral. I had hugged him and he hugged back. We were like a real family. A husband and daughter that had lost the woman of the house.  I wasn't scared of daddy then.

A few months later though, daddy came home late from work. Late and dead drunk.

Unsure of what to do, I ran upstairs and sat on the bed, wishing mom was there as dad sat downstairs, caught in a flashback of war. The flashback that had ruined him. Of that one time. He had accidentally shot up the wrong building, killing three kids and a mom, all innocent, while the bad guys escaped next door. That guilt, that knowledge, killed him inside. At least, that's what mom had said.

"Mommy" I had whimpered, tears in my eyes, wishing I wasn't alone, curled into a ball "I'm scared."

Two weeks later, he had hit me for the first time.

He had been gone all day. It was summer. I left the window open and began on the mountain of dishes. I needed to do the job now that mom wasn't here, after all. I heard the door open and shut behind me. "Oh daddy!" I had said. "Welcome home!"

he had walked up behind me."Doing the dishes, Linda?" he had asked, whisky in his breath.

"Yep" I had said, trying to keep the fear I had of him under control.

"That's good" he had said. And wandered over to the pile of clean dishes. Suddenly, the atmosphere of the room changed. I dared to look over at daddy. He was glaring at a plate.

"You call THIS clean?" he had growled.

"Well-uh-sorry! I-ill clean it right-"

He had thrown the plate at me. It only hit my leg, but it still hurt like hell.

"I CANT BELIEVE YOU CLAIM TO CLEAN THE FUCKING DISHES AND GIVE ME THIS YOU BITCH! YOU MOTHER WOULD HAVE NEVER ALLOWED FOR THIS!"

He began coming towards me, and, mortified and terrified, I had run upstairs and locked myself in my room. I sat in the dark while dad proceeded to break every dish he could and rage on about how dirty they were.

The next day, sober, dad had apologized. He promised he would get better. I believed him.He had also asked me if it was possible to do the dishes and such, for he was at work so much. I had agreed, and silently vowed to not let any dishes be dirty.

In the years that had followed, dad had gone through periods of sobriety and periods of constant drunkenness.  When he was drunk he would yell and hit and blame and when he was sober he would apologize and buy things to replace the broken ones. One thing that he had broken was something that could never be fixed, however. My trust.