I wake up the next night. My exhaustion from the previous night completely ruined me, allowing me to sleep the day away as if it were just another long, and dark night. My eyes opened. I sat there, still, and decided to hear if my dad was awake and sober or if he was awake and drunk, or even if he were awake at all. As a 36 year old single father who had to bare the death of his daughter and a wife who left him, still fathering a child alone, alcohol abuse is not surprising. I, for the longest time, used to think it wasn't my father's fault. That is, until I realized there was much more underneath the soft outside. There was a cold, rotten inside. He did love me. Only when my mother was still around. Now, he abuses me. I am nothing more than a mistake in his eyes. I'm one of his regrets, and I have to deal with it, because I am a child. I took a deep breath and looked over at my clock, and saw that it read 12:23 p.m., so he was awake. Go figure. I was hungry. That's nothing new, but I wanted something sweet. Despite my bruises on my legs and cuts on my hands and arms, I got out of bed without an issue, because I really wanted something sweet. My little toes gently stepped upon the cold tile. I felt a chill run up my spine. I pressed my palm on my forehead in an effort to relieve the splitting headache I had.
I looked over at the door to see my father's silouhette standing there. I blinked, hoping it was one of my hallucinations, but the figure stood there still. I shook my head slightly, when I noticed the sharp object in his hand. My eye slowly looked over towards the window, which was cracked open a bit from the previous night. I looked back at him. His head was cocked to the side. The object in his hand was not a knife. It was.... like a shard of glass... I shook my head again, this time muttering the words softly "No...no..", so gently my lips hardly parted.
I thought it was a little crazy to say, even in the darkness I could see a grin. I'd be a liar if I said he wasn't smiling. But he was. I was scared, scared for my life. My left foot went behind my hip, causing me to turn. Eyes on him, I crouched. I reached out until my hands slid across the floor to reach for the bat my mother gave me for homecoming season in baseball. I squinted so I could retain focus on him. I moved slowly, trying desperately not to make any sudden movements. He was drunk. He was probably thinking of killing me tonight. I kept shaking my head as he stepped from the doorway, slowly, tapping the glass against the wall, peeling the blue satin paint off the wall, and scraping through the Cars wallpaper in my room. That's when I think I wet my pajamas.
"If you come near me, I will hit you. With this bat here, in my hands. I will hit you in the ribs. I will break your bones if you hurt me. I don't want to, but I will if I have to. Back off, daddy.", I said to him firmly with my eyebrows furrowed. He kept smiling. I swear to god I heard a chuckle. I gripped the bat tighter, and tiny beads of sweat formed right below my thick brown hair. He knocked over my lamp, killing the only source of light in my room, other than the moonlight that crept in the window. To see the bright sparks spill from the light bulb as it shattered against my floor, may have saved my life. With the light given, I could see him raise the giant glass shard in the air, he was going to swing and cut my throat.
I stood steadily and once I heard the sound of his feet hit the ground, I swung randomly in the dark. I figured I would only piss him off more, but I heard a Crack that echoed throughout the room, hitting the walls and bouncing back into my ears. I heard him scream. I dropped the bat and my chance arrived yet again.
