Confessions of a Bitch

Daddy Issues

A torrent of emotions overwhelms me as dad’s hands continue to tighten themselves around my neck. As a young child, I read about an article about a twelve year old boy who was strangled to death by a python in South Africa, before being swallowed whole. The story terrified me out of my mind and gave me nightmares for months.

Maybe this was how the child felt as the python’s body coiled around him and continued squeezing, restricting his lungs, leaving him blue, terrified, cold and desperate to survive. Maybe the child struggled, trying to free itself from the endless layers of golden skin, cold like the kiss of death, without avail.

I don’t fight. I don’t scream. Instead I remain limp with my back against the wall, with the pitiful sound of my weak attempts to gasp for air. My eyes roll back in my head and I see shades of white. My throat constricts and a burning sensation overwhelms my lungs. My body screams at me, telling me to fight; to survive. It’s stupid really. My biological father or his gang did not kill me. Baby G had nothing on me. Viper was getting pretty close to having my head on a silver platter, but no, it would be my step father who would kiss my forehead and send me to my grave. Ironic, isn’t it?

For a moment, I look into my father’s eyes. They’re grey… deep grey. Veins prod out of his forehead and his nostrils are flared up like a bull about to do some damage. A part of me suddenly snaps in two. This is not the man I met all those years ago in Target. This is not the man who married my mum, dressed in a hot pink tie. This is not the man who saved me from a big hair malfunction before the ball.

The puzzle pieces slowly piece themselves together, as I realize the truth. It’s nothing new. It’s nothing special. I’ve seen it before. This is not my father. It’s a monster. My father has become a reflection of me.

I know that feeling of losing control. It’s euphoric, beautiful. Letting go off the railings and falling into the abyss is one of those things you never forget. It’s the taste of happiness… of freedom.

That is, until the monster comes knocking at your door.

That’s what happened with Baby G in year eight.

I think of kicking dad in the balls in order to get some hair. But he reads my mind and lets go of my neck, watching in satisfaction as I slump to the ground, gasping for breath. The sound of his chuckles chills my bones and makes me go numb.

“Who are you?” I ask between my gasp for air.

Dad bends down and looks me straight in the eyes. He smiles and gently removes some stands of blonde hair from my face before replying, “I’m your father of course. Who else would I be?”

“The devil,”

Dad throws his head back, roaring with laughter.  “You’re so stupid, it’s pathetic.” He pauses for a moment and points to the trash can on the floor. “Now, place those ties back in the rubbish bin and make yourself look acceptable. You look like a mess and that scar on your face does not do you any favors.” My breath hitches when he mentions my scar. “And don’t try anything stupid. I’m watching you.”

I watch as he begins walking away, only stopping briefly to kick the trash can across the room. I breathe a sigh of relief and close my eyes for a moment before crawling across the room to pick up the ties from the floor. I can still see stars and my throat throbs in agony.  With shaking fingers, I place the ties in the trash can. It feels as if I just ran a hundred kilometer marathon. It takes five attempts to get on my feet. My legs feel like jelly and I have to lean on the wall for support. It seems like years when I finish placing the trash can back in the kitchen, under the cupboards.