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Memnoch · 11-01-2003, 01:17 AM

I stared at him evenly, defiantly. I had never listened to his inane lectures; his furious gibberish. But I had never gotten up the nerve to make that apparent, either. Something had been triggered, this night. I don't know what, and I don't know why. So I stared him down, and saw clear into his soul.

Fear.

Fear of me becoming a man. Fear that I would take his wife, take his children, and most importantly: take his place. Underneath that sophisticated exterior, I saw what every son sees in every father: an unease that the son has been born as a replacement. This fear of invalidness, this denial of the inevitable.

How was he to cope with this? I'd caught the scent of fear, and I held on to it. I stood up a little straighter. Took a step closer. Flexed my shoulders and my biceps. I looked into him.

"I'm 3 inches taller than you, 3 IQ points higher than you, and 3 women farther than you."

And he quailed.

"So, what, buddy? You want to take this outside? We can settle this the way my stepdad settled things when I was your age. We can go outside and I can whip your ass, or we can stay in here and you can hear what I had to say." His voice quavered and pitched. He was 14 years old again, and suddenly I was Dad. And I knew that this was his final plea. A travesty of dominance - this blind hope that I might back down, now.

I took a breath and let it out. "You can't win, Dad. Even if you do manage to kick the shit out of me, I'll just call the fucking cops," I paused as a thuoght floated through my had. "Not only that, but I think I may just call child services, too," I smiled, years of hatred saturating my voice. "I don't think it's safe for an 11 year old girl to be raised by a delusional, violent father - do you?"

"How dare you?" he bellowed, eyes bulging from their sockets as though trying to escape the scene before them. He opened his mouth to continue, and I cut him off.

"No. How dare you? You call yourself 'father'. You've done nothing to earn that title, and even less to retain it." I drew myself up, a bear ready to attack. "I revoke your title and any misconceived notions that came with it. I don't owe you anything, and you owe me life." I turned around and marched rigidly out of the living room.

I heard his footsteps crossing the floor.

I saw his shadow racing up behind me as I turned to face him. My hand grasped for an object and then let fly with a swing. His face burned life a sun about to die, and then exploded in a nova of red fire. Blood burst from his eyes and nose and mouth as I connected the coffee mug to his face; porcelain gouging into the pores of his skin and ripping flesh from the ligament of my knuckles.

A high-pitched scream tore from his throat as he reached to his eyes; white, filmy liquid seeped from between his fingers. The scream caught up in his throat as he began to sob; pain, anguish and shame flowed in streams from his eye-sockets.

I nursed my knuckles in my shirt, in a mist of confusion as to what had just happened. I felt his blood speckled on my face. I heard his ragged, sob-filled breathing. And I smelled him. He'd let his bladder go in that violent moment, and its pungent odor nauseated me. I looked up from my wounds to see him lying there on the floor, salty tears stinging the sockets that no longer life.

And I knew what must come next.

I told my legs to move, and they did. They carried me to my room, and to my closet. I took out the old over-under sawed-off that my uncle had given to me years back. I had never mentioned having it to my father, and didn't plan to start now.

My legs carried me back to the living room, and I scanned the scene before me. Blood seeped and soaked everything. It began to dawn on me what I had done. I decided to part with my father's teachings. I glanced briefly at the shotgun in my hands, and suddenly understood what responsibility really was.

I'd waited a long time for this. He began to whimper again, as though begging for a life he'd never had in the first place.

I placed the barrels against his forehead. "Don't, Dad. Just...don't."

I wish he'd have found the fortitude to admit his mistakes in the end. But then, it's hard to say much of anything when your son doesn't bother to find out.

Comments/critiques/hate/love desired.

11-01-2003, 01:17 AM	#1 (permalink)
Memnoch Insane Location: Land of milk and honey - Wisconsin	Authority Revoked I stared at him evenly, defiantly. I had never listened to his inane lectures; his furious gibberish. But I had never gotten up the nerve to make that apparent, either. Something had been triggered, this night. I don't know what, and I don't know why. So I stared him down, and saw clear into his soul. Fear. Fear of me becoming a man. Fear that I would take his wife, take his children, and most importantly: take his place. Underneath that sophisticated exterior, I saw what every son sees in every father: an unease that the son has been born as a replacement. This fear of invalidness, this denial of the inevitable. How was he to cope with this? I'd caught the scent of fear, and I held on to it. I stood up a little straighter. Took a step closer. Flexed my shoulders and my biceps. I looked into him. "I'm 3 inches taller than you, 3 IQ points higher than you, and 3 women farther than you." And he quailed. "So, what, buddy? You want to take this outside? We can settle this the way my stepdad settled things when I was your age. We can go outside and I can whip your ass, or we can stay in here and you can hear what I had to say." His voice quavered and pitched. He was 14 years old again, and suddenly I was Dad. And I knew that this was his final plea. A travesty of dominance - this blind hope that I might back down, now. I took a breath and let it out. "You can't win, Dad. Even if you do manage to kick the shit out of me, I'll just call the fucking cops," I paused as a thuoght floated through my had. "Not only that, but I think I may just call child services, too," I smiled, years of hatred saturating my voice. "I don't think it's safe for an 11 year old girl to be raised by a delusional, violent father - do you?" "How dare you?" he bellowed, eyes bulging from their sockets as though trying to escape the scene before them. He opened his mouth to continue, and I cut him off. "No. How dare you? You call yourself 'father'. You've done nothing to earn that title, and even less to retain it." I drew myself up, a bear ready to attack. "I revoke your title and any misconceived notions that came with it. I don't owe you anything, and you owe me life." I turned around and marched rigidly out of the living room. I heard his footsteps crossing the floor. I saw his shadow racing up behind me as I turned to face him. My hand grasped for an object and then let fly with a swing. His face burned life a sun about to die, and then exploded in a nova of red fire. Blood burst from his eyes and nose and mouth as I connected the coffee mug to his face; porcelain gouging into the pores of his skin and ripping flesh from the ligament of my knuckles. A high-pitched scream tore from his throat as he reached to his eyes; white, filmy liquid seeped from between his fingers. The scream caught up in his throat as he began to sob; pain, anguish and shame flowed in streams from his eye-sockets. I nursed my knuckles in my shirt, in a mist of confusion as to what had just happened. I felt his blood speckled on my face. I heard his ragged, sob-filled breathing. And I smelled him. He'd let his bladder go in that violent moment, and its pungent odor nauseated me. I looked up from my wounds to see him lying there on the floor, salty tears stinging the sockets that no longer life. And I knew what must come next. I told my legs to move, and they did. They carried me to my room, and to my closet. I took out the old over-under sawed-off that my uncle had given to me years back. I had never mentioned having it to my father, and didn't plan to start now. My legs carried me back to the living room, and I scanned the scene before me. Blood seeped and soaked everything. It began to dawn on me what I had done. I decided to part with my father's teachings. I glanced briefly at the shotgun in my hands, and suddenly understood what responsibility really was. I'd waited a long time for this. He began to whimper again, as though begging for a life he'd never had in the first place. I placed the barrels against his forehead. "Don't, Dad. Just...don't." I wish he'd have found the fortitude to admit his mistakes in the end. But then, it's hard to say much of anything when your son doesn't bother to find out. Comments/critiques/hate/love desired. __________________ Doing my best not to end up like Kathleen Chang.