Chapter Text
It’s frustrating, sometimes.
The moments varied between sudden bursts of anger, or long hours of vows of silence. There have been times they lasted days as well. Albeit only one to three times a year, I came to learn they happened more frequently in the late summer, and were far deadlier. One of the worst cases of an episode I witnessed was probably my earliest. The memories were quite foggy, but there was no doubt in my mind of the raw emotion I felt that day.
It was the living room, I believe it was. On the floor, playing with my power ranger toys. I remember the red one in my left hand, flying through the air, trying to shoot down at my blue dinosaur. It was the yelling I heard first, from upstairs. The shouting and incoherent threats. I knew they were threats. Or at the very least, something not very nice. I think a vase broke that day, too. A vague memory of mom running from the dinning room was there. She dropped her laptop mid-run. It wasn’t a happy memory, she dropped it on my hand. It did bug me for a while, but a few years after realizing why, it bugged me less. I saw her run frantically up the stairs, remembering the exact second she left my field of vision. That’s when the fighting started.
Children soak up everything, I learned that now. Looking back at that day, I guess that’s when my own life began to go to shit. It was no one’s fault, though. I understand. However, I suppose the need to learn and understand was my curse. If my high school psychology class taught me anything, it was that I was traumatized that day. I felt the anger. The fear, the sadness; the sheer insanity of it all. I was only a child. An innocent baby that witnessed first-hand the start of a crack. A crack in our walls, the beginnings of our broken family.
My scariest memory was not something I thought I’d ever have to elaborate on, but over time, I realize that talking about it was a good thing. Talking about it not only help others learn about my life, but to also help myself through my own words that it was all inevitable – in a good way, if that’s something that makes sense. Hearing my own words on the matter helped me separate fear and reality. I would remember a moment, but speak of something else the next. Little white lies, to make the situations better or worse. For my own mentality. Speaking the truth hurt, I know. However, that pain could never compare to the weight that would leave my shoulders.
It was while I was in middle school. Or, when I finished. In just a few weeks, I’d be off to high school. As exciting as it was to be with my friends, my main priority at the time was to stay home and watch for my dad. I knew mom didn’t want me to. She was off on business. Not to say that I’ve never gone with her before, no. I have gone on trips with her before. She and I met at the understanding that I was too young to be taken seriously by company, and too old to be dragged by her hand. I was a big kid then. I knew how to take care of myself. Cook a small meal or two, do chores. The general stuff. The only issue we both had with me remaining at home was the situation with dad.
Now, he was by no means handicapped or disabled, lord no. He could still drive, he still worked. I even remembered that he cooked dinner and sat with us the day before. We would have family nights of dancing and card games where he’d make mom and I laugh uncontrollably until our ribs hurt. We had family barbecues where friends and family would visit until the sun went down. He was never overly violent or abusive, and loved us dearly. To the untrained eye, he was your average and normal man. When he wasn’t alone. The issue with mom leaving on business was that he’d be alone for long periods of time. I was not condemned to the house, I was still independent. I would still have my moments where I’d hang with friends for a few hours throughout the day. I always tried to only be away from home for a maximum of six to seven hours. I treated them like school days, if anything. Any longer, and that would be where I would start to get nervous.
One night, I was careless. It was solely my mistake, and I do not care if said otherwise. I had already been ignoring my dad for three days, only interacting with him at breakfast and dinner. We got into a heated argument over who knows what. All I remember was that I was angry at him for it, and that I didn’t want to talk to him. It was a stupid move. I left my home at around ten in the morning, but never came back until around nine in the evening. My friends and I crashed at one of their places for a day of movie marathons. It wasn’t until we were halfway through the fifth or sixth movie that I realized how late it was. I never thought it a big deal at that very moment, but as I made my way back home by bus, then later taxi, I realized how much I had screwed up. Dad was home alone, and having skipped dinner the night before, it had probably been over twenty-four hours since the last time I’d seen the man.
All I really remember from that moment on, before I reached the house, was pure fear. The terror I felt at the feeling of leaving him alone. There was no plan or logical guess as to how he’d act when I got home, as I had never done it before. It would be the first time in years that he was left alone at home for more than a day. There were times both mom and I were gone, sure, but there were people to step in for those times. Auntie May came over once or twice that we had to leave. Uncle B, too. Although, that was only once. Rumours spread around that dad had an episode when uncle was there, and he was not happy about it. We couldn’t get them, though. They lived too far to fly over just to watch over one man.
By the time I came home, I knew it was not going to be pretty. Dad was in the kitchen, a plate on the counter with sandwich in hand. He was crying.
I didn’t know if he’d explode on me. He was either crying in his own headspace without realizing, or was crying because he knew I wasn’t home. Either way, both instances would result in his temper leaving his body. He was facing the cupboards, and at the time, the front door creaks were dampened by the white noise of the outside world. The plan was for dad to catch me on the stairs facing the front door rather than the other way around. He’d think I was home the whole time. I suppose it was wishful thinking that ruined it all the more.
“You’re finally home.”
The comment was laced in affection, and for a second, I honestly thought that was all it was. Simple, easy, parental affection and worry. It would have made it easier. His transition easier. If not for my stupidity and drive to a simple high school life, I don’t think it would have ever escalated to what it was now. I regret it deeply, but I know it was inevitable. The work hours, the school days. The lack of availability to watch over the man. He was bound to break in the silence sooner or later. I just wished I had more time. More time for him, for us. More time for him to simply be my dad.
“I thought you’d never come back.”
He broke down from right where he stood. The sandwich hanging tightly between his teeth as fat tears were washing down his face. If it were anyone else, it’d be sickening. Except, the crying man was my dad. My poor, poor, dad.
“You came.”
By the time I had him wrapped in my arms, he was a broken record. Repeating my arrival home over and over again. We ended up hugging it out on the kitchen floor. My back up agains the fridge, with dad sobbing uncontrollably on my lap while clutching my hand for dear life. Frustrating. I was stuck there for hours. If I moved, I knew it’d get worse.
I spent that time thinking. Wondering why my life was the way it was, and wondering what dad was like before all this shit happened. I asked mom once. She only smiled. Telling me that dad has acted the same now as he was all those years ago. He was still the man who would cuss off dishonourable and rude people. He was still the man that wooed mom. He was still the man that gave me piggy-back rides until I was nearly ten, and that he was completely and utterly the same man that loved and cared for us with every fibre of his very being. She had also added something that stuck with me for years. While he was indeed the same man, for every good thing about him, there was also a bad one. It happens with everyone. A person kind to animals may not necessarily be kind to humans, and that a man who loves his family may not necessarily love himself.
So, there I sat. Stuck on my kitchen floor with my dad as he cried himself to sleep. The memory of the night in kitchen at front face value was nowhere near as scary as other events in life. I was nearly mugged once, but that moment of my life was nowhere near as scary as that day. It was scary because that was the day I realized, completely understood, that my dad was not okay. He would put on a façade, partying and dancing his way through life itself. It was only once he was alone that the pain and sufferings of life were able to creep into his head, and tear at his very soul. I didn’t leave him in the kitchen. I managed to prop him up in one of the dining room chairs. The moment I made it to my room, I cried.
The worst memory I had was just a few days after my scariest. It was the day mom came home. I told her about what happened with dad that day, and she was persistent on returning home. Funnily enough, dad recovered quite quickly after that episode in the kitchen – like it never happened. I don’t remember much, and I am honestly, quite thankful.
Mom hadn’t even been home for an hour, and the screaming match already started. I had no idea who started it first, but knowing them, it was probably both. Yelling out of excitement to see each other, I guess. It just escalated from there.
Again, I was in the living room when it happened. Sitting on the floor while slaving over paperwork on the coffee table. I always tried to help mom with work. She was not well-versed with the science, and I liked science. When she came through the door, her first act was to smile down at me and kiss the top of my head. She gave me a loving hello, and asked where dad went. He was always upstairs.
It was subtle at first. I could hear a grumble of a hello from dad, and a smooch from mom. I don’t remember what they were talking about, really, but I think they were talking about something like house decorations before the heat came into play. Dad came down the stairs, fuming. He was stomping over to the living room, and I did my best to quickly gather the papers. I thought he’d rip them apart, or take them away from me. They were the only things of immediate value I could think of that could possibly piss him off this badly. He then stormed right past me, grabbing hold of a magazine that lay open on the ground, beside the couch. I think it was one dad grabbed earlier, when the morning papers came in.
He wiped off all the pictures hanging over the mantle. Screaming too, as he did it all. Kicked the chairs, tossed the lamp across the room. He rolled the magazine up tightly in his hand, and angrily pointed it at mom. She was terrified. There was nothing much that a rolled up magazine could do, but the symbolizing was there. He didn’t have to pick up the magazine – the fire-poker was just over there. Words were thrown between the two, but I honestly could not remember what. It could have been the shock, or maybe the fear. Maybe both. All I recollected from that moment was when mom began to cry.
“Sweetheart, honey, I-I think it’s best if you stay at your aunt’s place for a while. Dad and I need to have a little… talk. Please.”
Dad was not happy about that. Not in the slightest. The two were screaming at each other, a back and forth banter of nonsense and constant yelling. I loved dad, I still do. It’s just- that day, he was a bit unhinged. He’d never hurt a fly, unless that fly hurt his family first, of course. I wasn’t scared of him, but for him. Mom was strong, and I knew she was only scared for my well-being. Whatever issues that mom had to deal with, she didn’t want me to see. She didn’t want me to see the mess she was about to unravel. The mess called my dad.
I went upstairs, grabbed my sleepover bag, then left. Mom never had me leave for May’s apartment on such short notice before, but she told me to always have at least one or two bags ready at all times in case of an emergency. The fact she told me, directly in front of dad no less, didn’t mean something good. Auntie May lived pretty far away. The distance was usually made by plane, but, there was a single train that ran once a day. It would get me close enough into the city to walk the rest. Mom had taught me the exact route, and money for the one-way ticket was kept in the bag at all times. It meant they were going to have a long fight that would last longer than just a few days, days that mom definitely didn’t want me to hear. As much as I wanted to stay, and how utterly frustrating the chaos was, I knew that dad needed help. He was not okay, and I prayed for him that day. I hoped he would get better.