Problematic Mindsets

7. The Night of Wailing

I come home late at night. The lights of the house shine through the windows beckoning me to hurry as I park my car in the garage. I ignore Dad's Ugly Duckling and it's sad eyes. The bright lights at this time of night makes me worried.
Dad must be home still, I think as the aroma of cigarette smoke kicks me in the face when I open the door. My feet guides me to the living room, he's not in his chair.
"Dad," I call out softly turning around just to come face to face to a strong fist. Because of the blow, my whole entire body has a shock. And I take a couple steps back to process what just happened. Something drips down my nose, I touch it. It's that famous red substance. My eyes stare at my fingers for a minute, then realize Dad's still standing at the same spot where he hit me.
My mind is racing. My thoughts are horses, running. And when they run it's not a trot. It's a sprint, they actually run. My jaw clenches to the point where it's in pain but I don't care at the moment. I'm met up with his eyes, and they're full of alcohol and hatred. Why? I don't know. I don't know why he gets so drunk to the point where he feels like he's taller than anyone and everyone. He does irrational things, big irrational things and that's why the crying walls tell me to wait for him to pass out. He's not so violent then. My mind still races, then  anger boils up inside of me.
"What the hell Dad!" My voice is new. A fresh new voice. It's someone I recognize but don't personally know. I don't want to personally know them. He raises his eyebrows and laughs. Dad always had a deep and throaty laugh, even when he was drunk. But this one is different. It's darker, meaner, scarier. I get the thought something bad will happen tonight.
Taking a couple steps back, I look for the phone from where I am. I don't want him to hurt me again. Not again. The closest one is on the countertop by the toaster. It's a ways a way, and I glance back at him. He has on a straight face. No. I know what he's going to do. Now you may be wondering what I'm talking about. He does this every time I'm out of my room when he's drunk.
Dad takes one foot, his right, and places it in front of him. He wears his shoes, his steal-toed shoes. The laces are covered in dirt and hang down at the side of both shoes. Dad does the same with his left. He does this until he stands right in front of me. We stand there for a few minutes in glass shattering silence. It's painful.

Then, in a swift motion, his right foot lifts up again and kicks me in the shin. He grabs my hair by a handful and throws my head to the ground. I groan after I hear the crack. I feel the hard part of his shoe hit my arms repeatedly as I'm trying to cover up my chest and head. His shoe hits my nose once, and I scream. My eyes are squeezed shut. He keeps kicking drunk kicks. They're pathetic. And they may be pathetic, but they hurt like hell. With each drunken kick, my heart beats and shatters and breaks a little more than before. Gorilla glue and tape can no longer fix it.

My mind is blank and throbbing because it collided with the ground. The horses don't run, there are no horses. With the last and final drunk and lazy kick, my dad decides to leave me there and turn off the lights. So I'm laying here in the dark on the cold hard floor, with blood running all over the place, and my head feeling like a pulsing balloon. My breathing is pretty slow, but at least I'm breathing. He didn't kill me. I'm still here. My eyelids are heavy but I get my eyes to open slightly. I can feel my heart beat in my nose, and I don't think that's a good sign. So I try and get my body off the cold floor but that's kind of an obstacle when you just got beaten for like twenty minutes straight. I find myself leaning on the countertop in the kitchen and feeling like I'm going to vomit, debating on whether or not to call Ashlyn.
No, she won't care. She's never cared. She left, remember? Don't you remember?
Yes. I remember. I was drowning. I feel a tear slip down my bloody cheek. Then after staring at nothing for a while, I limp back up to my room after deciding not to call her. My feet don't say anything, but they look at me. I don't look at them. After getting to my room and shutting the door, I slide down one of the white walls onto the floor and sob. I don't care if I sound like a complete baby. I don't know what else to do. My brain starts to think again. Solutions to stress. I look at the walls. They cry and sob with me, but not of the same reason of course. They don't suggest anything to my problem. I look at the bookcase; it lets out sorrowful tears. I look at the closet, it wails and mourns. And I look at the plant. It lets out a single salty tear. That tear trails down it's green leaf to the stem, and lays down in the dirt. It needs to be watered.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. It's the no named fish. He swims smoothly, gracefully. My crying dies down a little bit when I watch him for a while. He grins, grins a gentle grin, and says to me;
"Things will get get better, Parker. Right now may not seem like it, but it will be alright. You will be okay. I promise. "
I nod at him.
"Okay. If you say so, I say back to him. My brain gets an idea. A walk. Take a walk.