How the World Works

Why Doesn't He Love Me?

My father was always viewed as the perfect, storybook like character. At least, on the outside, away from my house, away from me. My mom always told me he loved me, that he had a really bad way of showing it. I know she was trying to protect me, to make me feel safe, but scars and bruises don't lie. And neither did he.
  I was only seven years old the first time my father upright told me he didn't love me, that, in fact, he hates me and doesn't want me on this earth. That was also the first time he gave me a scar. I still have that scar to this very day. No, not a physical scar, but a scar on my heart. After that, I no longer loved the man I called father. I wanted so badly to be like the other kids, to run up to my dad, give him a hug, tell him I loved him. But I simply could not. I had no spirit left in me to say those three little words. I didn't know they had so much power then. That those three little words could be good or bad. But boy did I learn, and very soon did I learn that trust wasn't something to just give away.
  I was eight years old the first time I caught my dad cheating on my mother. I was eight years old the first time I received a good beating from my dad. I'd walked up to him the day he brought home the woman with long blonde hair, tall heels, and a short dress. I'd walked up to him that day and asked, "Daddy, who's that woman? Where's Mama?" He'd growled and said, "Your Mama's at work, and if you tell her about this, I'll kick your scrawny little ass." 
  Mama came home from work a couple hours after the lady left. She ate dinner and came up to tuck me in. "Mama?" I asked. "Yes baby?" I looked up with my large silver eyes. "Who was that lady Daddy brought home today?" My mother froze. "Um, I'm not sure. What did she look like? Maybe she's one of your Daddy's friend from work." That look my mom held in her beautiful silvery blue eyes, the ones I had inherited from her, held so much pain, but young me didn't truly understand that look, the look of grief and heartbreak, so I told her. "She had long, blonde hair, and tall shoes, and a really short dress. She looked mean. Daddy told me if I told you he'd kick my ass. What does ass mean mama?" My mom gasped, looking like she was going to cry. "Don't say that word honey, use butt instead- okay?" I nodded. Okay.
  That night my dad came into my room. He told me I shouldn't have done that, that I was in big trouble. He pulled my night gown up and whipped me with his leather belt. I screamed out in pain. "Shh," He whispered. "You don't want to wake mommy, do you?" I shook my head no and he'd proceeded to hit me. I let out silent screams of anguish, but didn't want to wake my mother, so I stayed quiet. For my mom.
  I had watched my dad bring in women almost every night while my mom was working, slaving her butt off for this family. He was drunk every time. And every time it was a different girl in a short dress, skirt, or shorts. Those nights me and mom slept together, crying ourselves to sleep. It was two years later she'd had enough.
  At ten years old, I now knew that my dad was having sex with these women, and that he was an alcoholic. That he didn't love my mother.
  She was angry. Angry for crying herself to sleep every night, for being a coward instead of fighting for the man she loved. They fought for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only about thirty minutes. My mom slept with me and cryed herself to sleep again that night. That was also the night my father left.

(This song has no relevance I just love it)