When I was very young, I was to naive to realise what was going on but, as I grew, I began to really take in the scene around me and think about my life. Was my Dad truely the perfect person I thought he was? Was my Mum really my deffender? Did they really care if they could do this to us? From the age of 6 until I was 12, my life became a living hell.
I was so wrong. About everything and everyone. My Mum and Dad had always had "Special drinks that weren't for children" and I excepted that. They had an awful lot, but I got an awful lot of sweets and fizzy drinks, so I never complained. Both my parents are smokers, and they would always smoke in the living room with their "special drinks". Now that I was old enough to see Dad come home, when he wasn't far away working, I would stay up, and find out why mum and dad were so loud if I ever woke up in the night. It was the "Special drink", that they called booze.
Micheal was living with us now, so I was always happy with him. Dad had a man from work, who also lived with us. He was called Dan, and he just added to the amount Mum and Dad drank. Late at night he would walk me across the road, to the shop, and buy me sweets and pop. I didn't really like Dan,as I felt he didn't help at home.
Mum and Dad argued allot. It really made me unhappy, and my only escape was school. Of course that was sabotaged. My best friend tturned against me and made my life a living hell, leaving me on my own.
I remember the worst argument they had that year. It was a blur, but it was a blur that I still remember well. Mum and Dad were arguing, as usual, ann me and Micheal were standing in the door way, watching it all unfold. They continued to argue, their voices echoing in my ears, their vile words, carving themselves into my soul. When, suddenly, mum raised her glass, and threw it's alcahol ridden contense straight into my fathers face. Dad rose, his face filled with anger, pushed the table to his left harshly, before smashing the bottle in his hand and pushing my mother against the wall, fixing the broken bottle onto her neck. What followed next was probably one of the protective things my brother has ever done for me. He grabbed me by the hand, and we sprinted up the stairs, and into his bedroom. He locked the ddor and sat me on his bed, before kneeling down before me. "Stay here, ok. Don't worry about anything else than yourself." I nodded and we listened, intently, at the storm bellow us.
Eventually the fight stopped, and as far as I was concernced, they had only used naughty words. No real harm donee. But harm had been done. That glass could have hurt mum. Killed her if she hadn't got him away from her.
Micheal left when I was still six, coming up for seven. I missed him dreadully, and my life at home was beginning to get worse. I spent all my time locked away in my bedroom. I ate my food in there, watched sky Tv (My dad put it in there to keep me quiet) and bassically spent all my time there. I hated the atmosphere downstairs, but I still wanted some attention. I just wanted them to show me they care. But they didn't. They let me stay up there, as they continued to rip themselves apart with alcahol.
