One Month in Hell

My father slowly started to change due to the drugs, he wasn’t much of a loving man anymore. Every morning was routine, the smell of roasted coffee beans and handmade tortillas would wake me out of slumber. I grew attached to the sounds of my mother and father speaking to each other in the kitchen. Every morning I found them smiling and laughing at each other across the counter while enjoying the sweet and bitter taste of coffee. I was so used to the voices and whispering that I felt lost when it stopped. I started to stray far from school, I wasn’t longer their or so it seemed. I was day dreaming, wondering if home was really the place I wanted to be. I was slowly isolating myself.

The abuse didn’t stop: some would call my father a prideful man, others called him a family man, and I’d call that man the devil himself. My parent’s arguments got worst and the only thing I can set my mind to do was to distract my sister from it all. My father was a manipulative man, sweet talked everyone in our family to try and turn us against my Mother. Tried to make us fear him and it worked, he'd walk in the house and I thought I was going to die, at least I wished I was going to. My mother suggested we stay and that this was just a marriage phase, so we tried to wait it out. I remember waking up to a big THUD! When I ran to see what it was the smell of coins hit me, there was a dent in the dry wall and my mother was on the floor next to it. My father reeked of alcohol and drugs, when I tried to run towards my mother who had a gash in her face then he grabbed me. My father held me in the air, the grip getting tighter and tighter. He then said "don’t go near that bitch" I proceeded to slap him as hard as I could. In that second I remember him clearly letting go of me as he held me in front of him and before I made contact with the floor he kicked my face, I woke up in the hospital. My father’s ideal form of making it up to me was showing me how to operate a gun, which made me fear him even more. A man whose intentions where to harm his family shouldn’t have a gun. That was a turning point for me, I didn’t want a father anymore. Anything he had to offer I can so myself, any promises I can fulfil myself I no longer wanted to be a part of this family. Upon telling my mother tears burst out of her and the decision was made, we'd leave and try working life out without my father.

Every night got worse for my mother, and I struggled to understand how bad it really was for her. My parents were now distant and my father kept us locked in our house. Paranoid and afraid we'd leave, the coward would beat my mother and me senseless and lock us in rooms. I remember when I woke up by the aroma of blood, and I realized I was in a puddle of it and the reason it was so strong was because I had been lying in it for so long. I had a hard time remembering where I was, but soon realized I was in a storage room off the side of the house and the lights were off. I lost my voice and broke my nails screaming and scratching the door until I started to punch and kick it down. In the process the hard wood broke three of my knuckles and splintered my feet. I managed to get out only to find the house locked with my mom in the same attempts to get out. I wanted to get out of school and run home to check up on my mother and sister, I'd cry when the bus would get to school late. I wanted to be home at all times for my mother’s safety not my own. I’d show interest now on how to operate this tiny gun. When my father wasn’t beating me into a concussion he’d showed me how to use his gun. He’d grow angry if I wouldn’t use stray dogs as target practice. I always dread what I've been through, but god knows I wouldn't want anyone to go through what my mother has. I don't really understand how someone has the will and mentality to stay sane after all that she was being put through.

The beatings got worst, which I decided to take a stand for, I needed to stop hiding all that was bothering me. After a heated argument my mother tried calling the cops on my father, which he ended up inviting over to eat the next day because it was my father’s friend. I then knew it was up to me to figure something out, I mostly hated getting beaten and it got more sinister. I was allowed to choose what to get best with every night, and as I picked one item that was less painful. It was then swapped out for something horrible the next night. I grew timid, I no longer wanted to talk in school, or wear anything besides pants and sweaters at 100+ degrees. I was tired of what was going on and no matter what I went through my mother had it worse I couldn't even begin to imagine. One night I decided to choose the most painful object, in which case was a two-by-four that had two staples and one nail broken off by rust. In the middle of school the next day, I got up in the middle of class and took off my sweater and shirt. Child care services were involved and a case was made which took my father and mother under investigation. The commotion gave me time to find where my father hid his gun, and let me hide it from him. “Nothing will make you feel more invincible than the feeling of a gun in your hands” I remembered my dad say to me a week before. I did love my father, regardless of anything. I knew what I did was out of love for my mother, I wanted it all to stop. I didn’t want to see my mom hurting again.

My father was prosecuted for domestic violence, followed up with a drug abuse charge. That didn’t stop the abuse at home, he was let out on bail, and we had to get away. Both my mother and I were panicked, I knew we had to move out as soon as possible. My father had been using methamphetamine, which drove him delusional. It had been weeks of terror every night, I’ve never feared for my life like I did those nights. I remember hearing what I thought was a car hitting our house and through a wall. When I came to the living room the front door was wide open and I saw my mother fighting for her life. As I shouted and screamed for everything to stop, my father stopped beating on my mom and headed towards me. My heart raced, my body ached, my blood flew rapidly, I wasn’t taking this anymore I was going to hurt this man even if it meant killing him. That wasn’t my father anymore that was a stranger, an intruder. He pummeled me into the ground and laid his hardest hits on my chest, the closest thing I could grab was what I let on him. I ended up dropping a lamp on my father and my mother pushed him off of me. I got up and ran as fast as I could and headed to my room, I reached for a brown “Air-walk” shoe box and there it was. The solution to my problem was lying before my eyes, I cupped it in my hands and removed the safety. I walked in my living room watching my dad dragging my mom out the kitchen, I wasn’t afraid anymore. “Put that down!” no longer was I afraid, I now felt invincible, and at the end of the barrel I had my father pleading for his life. I faced my fear, I now had the power to end all the trauma, the only thing holding me back was the disappointing look in my mother’s eyes. I felt empowered, I shook from the frustration and urge to pull the trigger. Instead I decided to call the police, and held my father at gunpoint until the officers got there.     

Some believe in urban legends, where people are convinced the devil can disburse himself in different ways, I never thought he’d be 5’6 and id call him my father. We weren’t much of a family anymore, the experience drove us mad. I’d lost my father to the same drugs that made him dead to me. I felt relieved, that I wouldn’t have to see him again and I wouldn’t have to be near him anymore. Those same nights of torment will affect both my mother and sister more than I can imagine. Even though I do look back and I have the rest of my life to daydream how it could’ve gotten different. Here I stand on my way to a new location unknown to my father, here I stand as a 5 year old, ready to grow up and mature to not rely on anyone for happiness anymore.