A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

10

"DARYLL FUCKING THORN!!!"

The scream rumbles the household, the paintings adorning the cracking walls chitter and vibrate; some shaking hard enough to fall completely off the walls, the smash of broken glass abrupt and sharp.

"DARYLL!!!"

This time the whole house shakes in a violent, rageful burst of energy, the cracks and splits in the framework of the old Victorian era house growing ever bigger with each shout, each scream. The instability of the framework of my safe space acts as a reminder of the world I live in. The instability of my home is the instability of my life.

I am so, so scared.

What is little eight year old me supposed to do when everything I thought was safe came crashing down infront of me?

What is anyone supposed to do?

I can see myself now, looking down at me from another point of view: cowering in a corner, whimpering, tears flowing down my cheeks in a torrential downpour of utter, utter fear.

It's as if looking at myself allows me an insight into my younger self's thoughts.

"What did I do, Daddy? What did I do wrong?"

"I'm sorry Daddy!"

"Please don't shout anymore. Please! You're scaring me."

It hurts to look at the little coyote, bundled up, wrapping himself around himself.
Himself being all that he had left.

Where did I go wrong?
Did I?

I suppose it could be traced back to the beginning, couldn't it?

                                .....

I was born premature. Great start, I know.

This was due to complications within the womb, and I was also a C-section baby. A sickly child indeed. There was a chance I wouldn't make it out of the hospital, not in one piece at least. Probably would've ended up leaving as a pile of ash in a little urn for my parents to discard as soon as they got home had the staff not been so damn persistent.

I persevered, however. I made it through. I'm still alive.

I don't know much of my infant years to give accurate depictions, however, so everything I've been told is all jumbled; out of sync and out of chronology.

I do know, however, that my first word was at around eighteen months, so I was a late bloomer.

Whatever my first word was exactly has been kept from me. I wouldn't mind knowing, but I also don't care enough to pursue the answer.

My later infant years are better documented, and much clearer. I know that I was a stubborn kid. Badly behaved, even for being between two and three. I apparently never listened to anything, and cried "like a bitch," according to my mother, who must've been the one to bring me up in those earlier years.

Father was always working, of course, and for a family in a moreso upper-middle class house, we sure as shit shouldn't have been able to afford to live in it.

Mother came from a wealthy background, bankers I'm pretty sure, and had some money with her by the time she met my father.

Educated well enough to do what she wanted, though I doubt she worked a day in her life. One of those people that leeched off the efforts of others' hard work.

And that's exactly what she did to father, who came from a absolute poverty.

Working class, factory working types. Uneducated, especially back then, when education was more of a luxury than a right.