Blown Away

Life at home has been rough since Mom died. Dad turned towards alcohol to numb his pain and I was caught in his web of abuse. It was mainly verbal abuse, but every so often he would beat me depending on how much he drank. This fueled my hatred towards him, and I wanted him dead.
It was yet another quiet day in our old country house in the middle of Oklahoma. I stand out on the porch when a crack of dry lightning breaks the silence.
This happened often in Oklahoma, so I wasn't concerned. Dad had just finished drinking and he went on a yelling frenzy. He would yell at me, God, himself and my mother's old picture. I knew it was getting bad when the sound of glass shattering rose from within the house.
After rain started pelting the house, I went inside to clean the aftermath of my father's fury. Pieces of glass litter the floor and the coffee table is turned over. He sits on the couch sipping out of a bottle of whiskey. More bottles surround him, proof of his previous drinks.
I finish sweeping the glass up when I enter the living room. The television blares the weather, and I couldn't help but turn towards it, the bright red catching my eye.
Tornado warning, I think as I turn towards my drunken father. "The weatherman calls for a twister," I mutter to him. He grunts in response.
In Oklahoma, tornado warnings were common. Usually it wasn't accurate and the tornado blew over. Both my father and I know that. I continue cleaning while my father continues to drink himself into unconscious.
As I finish cleaning his bottles of whiskey, the sound of a tornado siren screams, piercing the silence. I drop a bottle and rush to a window. In the distance, a large plume of dust and debris reaches into the air. I watch as a barn gets ripped from its foundation, my feet planted to the ground.
"Dad!" I scream as I enter the living room. He lay on the couch in a state of unconsciousness. I yank on his arm to get him out of the house, but I stop. He caused so much harm, so why should I help him? I release his arm, and I dash to the storm cellar.
"Come. On!" I grunt as I pry the doors open. They fling open and are nearly ripped off of their hinges from the wind. I wrestle them close and latch it shut.
I scramble to a dusty bed, and I lay down. Images of my mother and father flutter from a stream of air that leaked through a crack somewhere in the room. Some people call this taking shelter..... I call this sweet revenge, I think, a devilish smirk creeping onto my face.
The wind screams as the tornado passes over me. I listen to the rattling of the ancient steel doors as the storm threatens to rip them off. I know that in the living room my father would be gone. Dead. With this thought in my head, I curl into a ball and close my eyes.
I wake up to silence. Running my hand through my blonde hair, I walk up the stairs in the cellar and timidly open the door. Bright sunlight leaks through and a soft breeze ruffles my shirt. I look at my flattened house and smile. I was now free from my father.