To Feel What I Feel

Means I Can Leave

"Sit down!" Dad yells. I laugh inside as I cry on the outside. Dad's in-between me and the door. I crouch on one knee then run for the door. I'm yanked back, and I twist around. Dad had caught my wrist.

"I'm leaving." I say.

"Doesn't look like it." Dad points, tightening his fingers. I gasp from the pain and glare at him.

"Let me go." I growl.

"So, you can run for the door? Y'know I would've caught you. I locked the door." Dad laughs. With my free hand I grab the Kleenex and blow my nose.

"Let me go." I repeat.

"Listen to me, you disgraceful child. You're going to sit back down after I hug you." Dad orders as he yanks me closer, into a hug. I don't complete the exercise. He leads me to the couch and stands beside me until I sit. I sit on my hands to avoid flipping him off. Last thing we need is to fight. He sits beside me and grabs my hand. "Where would you go?"

"Somewhere that ain't here." I mutter. My eyes glazed as I internally shut down my emotions. I laugh in my mind. Why am I crying? Dad's just a nut.

"You'll never escape until you're 18. Which is in two years. You can't survive two more years?"

"Not willingly." I point. His grip tightens around my wrist, again, and I gasp.

"You better stop with the attitude." Dad threatens, finally. I look him in the eye.

"Or what exactly? What are you going to do to me that I haven't been through before?" I ask, warily.

"You don't even want to know." Dad says, glaring.

"Pretend I did." I say, softly.

"Alright, I'll throw out all your stuffed-animals. Because you're a hoarder. That room is for sleeping not cuddling things that aren't even alive. Then I'm going to throw out most of your clothes. Y'know the dresses you're saving for your kids? They don't even fit you anymore. Anyways, then I'm going to take all electronics back and erase the data. Then you can have 'em back. Then any posters you have are going in the trash because you're obviously under bad-influence. Then new rules; you can't leave the living room while I'm still talking, and in the middle of the day you can't go to your room. I want to see you all day whether you feel the same or not. And I want to see a smile at least once a day whether you're happy or not. And no more sarcastic comments." Dad explains.

"I hate you." I growl, choking. I slow my breathing.

"And no more of that. Give me the watch. Time isn't important to you anymore." Dad says, tossing my watch in the trash. I kind of want to flip him off just to see him explode. But I don't. My things, I'll throw away myself because the last thing they should see should be me not this monster.