The parents
The father
is shouting and hitting doors. He breaks the window in an attempt to make her
hear. The banging of his fists on the
huge wooden door is infinitely echoed.
The windows are shaking and my nine year old heart is shuttering. He only does that when he’s drunk the
brandy. She can’t hear because the music
is too loud. She is a swirling mess of Barbara Streisand, cheap cigarettes and
even cheaper wine. I lie in my bed. Me
and the roaches. She’s let him in the front door now, thank God. We live on the
High Street and this weekly occurrence has caused the entire world to know the
shame. Nowhere to hide. Sigh. It is what it is, I guess.
I can hear shouting
above Barbara. The noise gets louder and louder. I put the pillow over my head
and I start unconsciously rocking myself. Shit the sheets are wet. Am I crying? Why can’t
I just sleep? I start breathing. Slowly.
I have to think. I have to have a plan of action in case he comes in. For me and the roaches. I hear him hit her. I
hear her cry out and fall. The music gets louder in my head and for a split
second my attention is taken away from the unfolding drama.
In that
split second he has managed to disentangle himself from Barbara and her and
walk down to burst open my bedroom door. FUCK. My windows are barred. My only
hope is to out maneuver him. I can’t
hear what he is saying even though he is shouting at me. Whatever he is
shouting at me is the reason for his outburst tonight. I know that I will hear about it at school
because he will have told everybody at the bar where he got drunk tonight. He punches a hole in my wall. Again. My poor
wall. As he lunges forward to hit me
with his enormous fists I slip past him and into the adjoining room where I
find her cowering on her bed. Barbara doesn’t give you courage. The forgotten
paragraph in the music is the one which tells you to protect your child. She’s
too far gone to help anyways. He recovers enough to follow me but is distracted
by the need to vomit. I hear him heaving heavily before it all comes out in one
mass. I can smell it. It’s disgusting. He’s
disgusting. She’s disgusting. Barbara is disgusting. I’m disgusting.
I run to
the opposite side of the house near the kitchen. I hide in the pantry. The roaches have told me where to hide. I’m
not alone in the madness. He never finds
me in the pantry. The dog, however finds me and together we curl up in a corner
while the house settles down. I rock
myself to sleep. My tears are all licked up.
Early
morning I let the dog out and clean the vomit up. The father wakes up and in a
flourish of regret and guilt makes a huge breakfast for the whole house. Eggs,
toast, sausages, beans and crispy bacon. The mother is smiling, pretending that
nothing happened. I don’t say anything. I paint another picture to cover the hole
in the wall. A ship to get out of here
and a house to live in. I know tonight it will happen all over again, but for
now I sit down and choke those fucking eggs down. I eat because I am their sin
eater.
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