The walking stick.

IV

Perhaps that was why Ariel was always crying as she hid beneath the floorboards or walls when his rage found him. He recognized nothing and no one when he was like this. Yet here he was, a contribution to the modern success of their society. As far as their society was concerned, they were just a small cost they were willing to pay in the long run for their dogged wins. That fact they verified when they managed to find a way to not interfere when he was beating her mother to death repeatedly in full view.
A bitter pill she had swallowed from very early on, not all lives were worth the same.

As they made their way towards the void deck, they were met with piercing eyes that stretched all through the gang way. She had grown up with most of these people. Most of which knew her struggle and the pain her father had caused them. She knew why they were here, not to pay any last respect, but to glorify the end of an era, a dictations era that not only brought terror but also seething pain that pushed her mother even closer to cashing her chips; but only left her at the mercy of that walking stick for the rest of her life.

She remembers it like it was yesterday. A warm Saturday afternoon with calm rays of sunshine peering through window sills emanating still silhouettes of happiness. The weekly farm market had just closed and they were heading home after a long day of purchasing fresh farm produce. There she was, hopping playfully with her hand interlocked in her mums as they neared their farm house verandah. And there he was, staring menacingly at them ready to pounce.

Ariel's father, was a drunk, plain and simple. Most days he would wake up to a shot of whisky and chasing others with rum. By noon he was slurring his words and soon after he would pass out in his own piss. He never left the house, why would he? Everything he wanted or rather everything he desired came easy to him. How you may ask? His temper was not only legendary but also dangerous. Dangerous enough to leave broken pieces of glass and fist prints across every wall in that house. Some of which were present to this day. When he wasn't punching walls, he was punching his submissive wife like a Cherokee drum.

This day wasn't any different. Like an angry bull in an arena, he was a man possessed.
"Where have you been your ungrateful hag?" He shouted angrily slamming his fist against the wooden frame. The bottle of whisky on his other hand wobbling dangerously.

"I asked you a question. Where the hell have you been?" He bellowed again, this time smashing the bottle of whisky on the ground leaving only the sharp tip exposed. Ariel was crying at this point, confused and afraid not knowing what to do. She had witnessed this before, but this time he had gone too far. All her screams could not help her sweet mother from the kicks and blows. Not even the onlookers and neighbors lifted a finger to help. Ariel watched helplessly as her mother was clobbered and maimed. She hoped it would end, she cried and begged and with every scream, she thought she would cry her lungs out. Eventually it all stopped and everything went silent.

He was now finally resting in the casket.it gleamed in the early morning light that streamed through the windows.it was also deliberately crafted not to bring comfort for the afterlife for he was a man destined to suffer for the harm he had caused. You could tell that it was not built from love but grave animosity. All this could not reduce the trauma, but it was a first step. His drinking days had finally caught up with him, and he was a batterer no more.
"I will never leave you again mother", Ariel whispered as welled up tears trickled down her cheeks; All the while staring at the corpse of the man she had once called dad seething with anger and regret.

Clasping her walking stick firmly, she walked back into the living room to start the proceeding of the wake. She was safe now, and that was all that mattered.