Interlinked- Kyra Cooney-Cross

*ONE*

TW: MENTION OF ABUSE

I never used to have a temper.

In fact, I used to live a normal life. Just me, my dad, my mum and my brother, Brendon.

I was always the artistic child, creating various displays of stick man pictures for mum to stick up with some wacky magnet on the fridge. Every hour of every day, I would be clutching my little waxy crayons with sweaty hands and drawing elaborate patterns on scrap paper my dad would rummage for in the side table. The noise of footballs being kicked, men shouting, whistles blowing would just be the background noise in my art studio, I never paid attention to it, clueless that it would become the most important thing to me in later life.

My dad and brother were quite the opposite, sport-driven men. My dad was an avid Chelsea fan, every weekend (or weekday if it was a Champion's league game) there had to be a time slot dedicated to the team he loved. Even if he was watching by myself, the house would be filled with raucous chanting, screams at a wonder goal or angry complaints at the referee. Everywhere you looked, some type of chelsea memorabilia would adorn the peeling walls whether tickets from Stamford Bridge or blue and white striped gameday scarves or even a signed letter from the first team. On the other hand, although acting interested for our dad's sake, Brendon was never a football fan. He was a rugby lad. My Mum used to say that he came out the womb a rugby player, with muscular broad shoulders and a tall body.

Because of this, my dad and Brendon shared a close relationship. There wasn't a moment of any day, that my father wouldn't brag about the multiple trophies and titles that Brendon would win at our local grassroots rugby team. In fact, he used to decorate him with heavy medals and badges then parade him around the neighborhood, like a prize pony. There was some part of me that was jealous. Not particularly of his athletic ability but thinking like the young child I was, I thought he was taking my daddy away from me. Sure, me and my mother spent loads of time together in consequence, multiple food shopping trips or trips to the garden centre to look at the pretty fish. However, she never went out of her way to go somewhere for me. It was always a convenience thing or an errand she had to run, either do the "big shop" for the week or buy more soil for the planters. The other children in my class would tell tales of multiple visits to Legoland or the zoo, whereas when it was my turn to speak, I would act shy and embarrassed, when in reality, I had nothing interesting to say.

Then the alcohol started.

Multiple nights of every week, my dad wouldn't come home, or come crashing through the door at gone seven, when I was eating my cereal at the table, getting ready for the school day. He staggered in, blackout drunk, clumsily knocking into furniture or breaking things. That's how it started.

It only got worse when money got involved.

As mentioned, my dad was an avid Chelsea fan. But he wasn't an avid thinker. Money would go missing, not only from my mum's purse or family holiday fund, but from me and Brendon's piggybanks as well. There was no doubt it wasn't going to a good cause. It went to the hundreds of beers, my father would purchase at the pub, before stumbling into the betting lounge and losing hundreds of pounds per day, on stupid bets about the matches or who would score first.

Finally, my mother had enough and wracked up the courage to confront him. I still remember the day, it plagues my brain with disease, popping up in my nightmares still. It was a Friday night, the rain hammering bullets at my window as I sat at my desk, experimenting with my new set of felt tip pens I had been given for my 8th birthday. All of a sudden, Brendon came charging through the door, dripping in a mix of sweat and rain as he had just arrived back from training.

"Evie." He stated, out of breath, "Mum and dad....they're fighting."

I looked up abruptly, my hairs standing on end. Their fights never ended well. Imagine me and my brother curled up together ( 8 and 11) listening to the smashing of plates, cries of frustration or anger and yelps of pain from my mother. It was traumatizing. Tears streamed from my eyes as I cuddled into my brother's strong arms, searching for a feeling of comfort within this time of despair and fear. That was the last day I ever heard or saw my dad. He packed his bags and yelled a final insult at my mother before slamming the front door, diving out of fatherhood responsibilities and my life.