The screams and yells would always haunt me throughout the night. Every bump against the wall urged me to investigate. I knew each time that the sight I would find was threatening to make me wish I didn't look, imagine I couldn't hear, and pray I could help; but I was far too little or as mom said 'too young to understand love.' I did know one thing for certain: love was not the way you treated her.
Your raspy voice growled 'Get up bitch!' Before she could find a leg to stand on, you immediately smacked her back down.
I think, maybe, you thought that hitting her would make you superior. In a way it did. However, that was only until I grew old enough to protect her.
I'm afraid I did what I had to do.
I was beginning to grow tiresome. I would stay awake all night awaiting the distant sounds of yelp. I could hear her scream out in fear.
I deeply sympathized with her.
Once the beating started, so did the pain. I felt the pain of every scratch, scar, and bruise you left on her. I cried her tears while you whipped the remaining blood from her frail body, leaving a trace of your ruthlessness with each lick.
Remember Christmas Day?
On Christmas Day all she wanted was for you to stay home and be with the family. She begged you to just stay with us. She pleaded with you to simply have dinner at home.
Would it have killed you "Dad"? Was it going to hurt to just stick around and eat some of the canned turkey with your family? I am dying to know; only, you can't answer me because you were dying to punish her. Now, that's exactly what you did: died. I guess you can say it was for a cause right? You died lashing out on her because you didn't want to live a day not being able to.
