Meet Me By The Dock

Chapter 22

“You’re not the perfect fucking 15 year old you think you are!” I could see his face turn red from across the kitchen island.

I stilled my shaking hands and stared him straight in the eyes. I would not cower. I have been here before, it only hurts if you let it. My heart beat wildly in my chest and my stomach turned at how quickly the mood of the room shifted.

I didn’t swallow down the lump in my throat or even blink. I reigned in my emotions and hoped that I wouldn’t remember most of this tomorrow. I’m grateful to know more now than I knew as a child.

I know the best hiding spots, the back corner of my closet. The best places to cry where they wouldn’t here, the shower but you still had to be quiet— the sound echoed off the tiles. I know now why I could barely remember these encounters a week later, my brain blurred out the details that were too traumatic for my child brain so I didn’t have to experience being hurt by the man who was supposed to love me unconditionally. Even now my brain still keeps the same routine.

“I feed you, I clothe you, I take care of you!” His voice becomes almost hysterical with how loud he's yelling— and for how long. I’ve been standing here waiting for my dismissal as he continues to scream the same things into my head over and over.

Maybe he hoped if he yelled loud enough it would stick. But it never did. Every time after he gets like this I swear to myself not to talk again, because it always leads to this. I would promise myself that I would remain a shadow in his life, he would only notice me if he was looking for me. But, I always slip up and revert to my old ways for just a second— and I’m reminded once again that I have my walls for a reason.

This time I waltzed down the steps and into the kitchen, I noticed he got a new charging cable for his phone. I picked it up to inspect it because it was one of those chargers that coils around and around. But then, he came in, freaked out and screamed, “You can’t just go around touching peoples things!” He boomed, “Like, use your brain! Where is the logic in that?!”

I dropped the charger like it was on fire and stepped back, then I recalled a moment last week, “But you touched my stuff.” I point out. It's true, last week I came home and learned that he had gone through my night stands while I was at school. I hadn’t said anything then but I seethed as I reorganized my drawers from their ramshackle state.

But now seemed like a fair time to bring it up as any, “Excuse me?!” He screamed.
I guess not.

“Who are you talking to, child?!” Another thing I know now that I’m older, he says child in a condescending tone as a way to control me, as a way to control my feelings. He tries to make me feel less than, he tries to scare me by pointing out my weaknesses.

“Its so fucking disrespectful!” He yells with his brow furrowed, staring at me waiting for me to break. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.” He snatches his phone off the counter and storms over to his chair at the dinner table.

The fire inside me burns to be released, it aches to scream, “Respect goes both ways.” It yearns to yell until my throat is stripped raw. But I don’t, of course. I’m not sure what he’d do. He wouldn’t hit me… I think.

I stand there with my heart in my throat but not a single emotion on my face as I face him silently. He sits in his chair staring at his phone, I’m not sure what he’s even looking at because he just sat down. But I know he’s going to start again in 3, 2, 1.

He sighs angrily and looks back over at me, “I mean what do I have to do?! I’ve tried everything to try to get you to realize that you are the child and I am the parent.” Bingo. His voice isn’t shrill anymore but it’s still loud enough to be considered yelling. “What do I have to do to drill it into that thick head of yours? That you do nothing to deserve any of this but you still feel entitled to everything, hm?!”

I wanted to cup my hands over my ears and scream leave me alone! But of course, I don’t. Instead I quietly say, “I don’t know.”

He gets up and walks back to the island, on a side closer to me now. He slams his palms flat on the marble as hard as he can. I flinch at the noise and then internally chide myself for doing so. “I don’t know. Isn’t. Good. Enough.” He booms.

I keep my face straight and stare blankly at him because I have no other answers that he would tolerate. “Get the fuck away from me.” He waves me off. I clench my jaw and walk out of the kitchen as calmly as I can.

When I make it to my room I slowly sit on the floor and lean against my bed. I clutch my knees to my chest and take deep gulps of air, willing the tears not to fall. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

I lean my elbows on my knees and take fistfuls of my hair and tug. All of my anger is building up inside of me with nowhere to release.

It's moments like these where I resent my father. Resent everything he's put me through and everything he thinks it's okay to say. I resent my mother for standing by and watching it happen. But mostly I resent myself for never speaking up and screaming how unfair it all is. How asking for a sliver of respect from one human to another isn’t much to ask.

All of my hatred and self loathing boils over the edge and spills into my bloodstream. Flowing from my brain to my fingertips, and into my heart. Until my vision is tainted in red and I can't see anything at all.