“You should be lucky that I had my drink today!”
My abusive father yelled at me as he threw a splash of alcohol on the ground right before my eyes. He then picked up his empty whiskey bottle and hurled it against me, hitting me square in the face. It hurt so bad that I could not help but cry out in pain. But I knew better than to make any sudden movements or try to retaliate back at him.
His fat fist hit me on my stomach hard, causing me to fall on the ground with yelp. “Stop crying you little shit! You are not supposed to be sad! You were born into this world for a reason! That is why I need you here to be alive and fucking well!” He said, throwing another punch at me. This time, however, he swung his arm too wide and hit the wall behind me instead of my face. His drunken rage was getting worse by the day.
I sat on the wooden floor, trying to hold my tears as best I could from all the abuse I have been receiving. I did nothing wrong but be myself. Why does father hate me? I asked myself, clutching onto my stomach, feeling it burning with pain. He then came over and grabbed me by the hair, forcing me to stand up.
“Listen brat! I want you to clean this shitty cabin of ours! Find any garbage laying around on the floor and throw it outside!” He commanded me with a stern tone while glaring down at me, making me feel even more miserable. I felt like an animal being forced to do something that I did not wish to do, but there is no other way for me to survive as my life is depended on him.
“Y-yes…” I whispered, knowing that if I did not comply, he would hit me again. My answer did not satisfy him enough, so he slapped my left cheek with his other hand, sending me falling to the ground as my shredded strains of hair remained in his gripped hand. “You better hurry and start cleaning! Don’t think I will be nice next time!” He said in a threatening voice before turning away from me, heading back to his favorite chair.
I gasp in relief, laying back on the dirty wooden floor with tears streaming down my face. I could never forgive myself for what had happened. All I wanted was to have a normal family and live peacefully like everyone else, but it is hard when I am cursed to be different than others.
“Do what father tells you…” I mumbled to myself as I lay on the ground, curled up into a fetal position. “…Just like always…”
Crying helps me calm down and relieve some stress from all these abuse I have been receiving ever since my birth, but it does not change anything. It just makes me feel worse about everything that has already happened to me. Yet, I still cry whenever he slaps or hits me, despite how many times he does so.
So I sobbed, quietly and silently, with tears flowing freely out of my eyes, trying to block out my mind from all the pain. My hands trembled, clutched onto my abdomen, clutching it tightly with both my palms while feeling my stomach ache in agony from the burning pain of his fist. Tears streamed down my cheeks with the salty taste of salt on my lips.
I do not know how long I stayed here, just crying nonstop in silence without him noticing. He was sitting at his favorite chair by the window, watching his television, eating his cheese puffs and drinking beer without the care of the world.
But it hurts so much… I whimpered to myself, my body shook uncontrollably due to the immense emotional trauma I experienced. The only thing that comforted me was the warmth from my tears soaking into my white shirt.
“I have to do, I have to do this or else I might lose a tooth…” I muttered to myself, standing up unsteadily, holding onto the wall for support, wiping away my tears with my other hand. With trembling hands, I reached over to a tall kitchen cabinet where the cleaning supplies were kept, grabbing a mop and empty bucket. “Oh no…” I gasped softly, my vision started getting blurry, forcing me to hold onto the sink countertop with one occupied hand, steadying my breathing.
My head is suddenly throbbing violently, causing me to gasp loudly from the pain.
“What is going on there boy?!” Father yelled from his room with no genuine concern in his voice, “you better tell me now or I will come over there and show you what happens when someone disobeys their father!”
“Sorry father! I just slipped,” I responded nervously, wiping the sweat off my forehead from being pressured. I was already scared out of my wits by the idea of his footsteps coming closer towards my direction, boiling the fear of facing him again after he had beaten me mercilessly with his fists and bottles.
Father did not response my apology nor commented it, conversely only gave out a loud sneer before turning back to the television, ignoring me completely. He then continued watching the news as if nothing had happened between us earlier.
I need to get myself together and start cleaning up the mess. I thought, clenching my fists tightly in frustration. My mind was still clouded with confusion because of all the events that occurred today. It has always been the yelling and punching me for doing something wrong. Although, I do hope in my heart that he does love me… but deep down inside, I know it is just fantasy.
With shaky hands, I poured water into the bucket, added some detergent and began using the mop to clean the floor of our cabin. I also used the sponge and rag soaked with soapy solution to wipe away dirt and grime. I did not notice the tears falling from my eyes, nor hear Father’s footsteps approaching me, just me and the sound of my own sobbing.
“Why can he not stop hitting me?” I whispered, shaking my head sadly while rubbing my cheek where he hit me hard earlier. “He keeps beating me like this everyday, sometimes even two or three times a day…”
I could feel myself losing control throughout continuing scrubbing the wooden floors with my mop. Tears are now flowing freely down my cheeks, I felt disgusted at myself for letting out such weakness to the world and my abusive father. How many times did he beat me today? Maybe ten times?! No, maybe twenty! It was so difficult to count because he kept repeating the same thing over and over again, ‘you are useless, you will never amount to anything, no one will ever want you,’ among other examples in my memories.
The more I try to forget about him and everything else that happened to me, the harder it is for me to overcome these feelings of guilt, depression and loneliness. I am constantly haunted by what he has done and said towards me, haunting me through his words, actions and demeanor. All of those horrible things he did have made me question my own sanity as well as doubt whether I should continue living if I were to die from being abused.
It feels like I am drowning inside an ocean full of sharks with only a small island within reach where there is a light shining brightly at night which beckons me in. That light represents hope and salvation for me. But, the island has been surrounded by monsters who keep attacking me when I try to swim closer to it.
Perhaps…I should at least deliver him a gift or something so he might not hurt me anymore? I never had given him anything, only his requests and demands but nothing in return. Perhaps this time, I could makeup for all the wrongs I have done to him. The only problem is how to do it without causing him any suspicion in avoiding his request to clean the house.
I momentary stopped my cleaning, thinking about what to give Father. I suddenly remembered that father has a liking for baked pie. So, I decided to bake a nice warm apple pie just for him. I went to the kitchen, leaving the mop and half-full bucket behind as I started searching for ingredients while making a list of necessary items on my hand.
“Hmm…”
The thought of giving father would appreciate and eat it, came into my mind after a long period of pondering. I remember the ingredients, father used to ‘help’ me in making apple pies in the past and the memory of it still lingers inside my head.
After some minutes, I managed to find most of the ingredients needed for baking an apple pie, except for one thing. The last ingredient that I needed was flour. As I searched around the kitchen cabinets for the flour, I saw a white bag lying beside the countertop. Then, I remembered the last time he ordered flour from somewhere and how father said that it cost too much money for our budget.
Come what may it be, this will not stop me from making his favorite apple pie. With determination in my eyes, I walked over to the bag of flour, which is still sealed tightly with a plastic wrapper and removed the wrapping off it.
I then pour it on the large bowl with the rest of the ingredients and began mixing them together until it became smooth. Once the dough was ready, I took out my rolling pin and placed it on top of the table, before taking out a big piece of parchment paper and spreading it out across the surface of the desk.
Then, I begin to roll the dough into a thin circle, using the same technique that I did when I made pizza. After that, I rolled the dough up like a snake, placing it carefully onto the tray. I also put another sheet of parchment paper on top so that the bottom part will not stick. Lastly, I cut off the excess dough and place it aside.
With great care, I placed the crusts side by side, covering the base and sides of the pan with them.
“All right… Let us see if this works.”
Once everything was done, I took out the oven mitt and opened the door of the oven. The smell of apples filled the room as the heat slowly rose inside the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing in the kitchen?!” He yelled loudly from his room, curious and angry at what I was about to do. “You are supposed to be cleaning the fucking house!”
I forced myself to smile, “do not worry father! I am preparing for your apple pie that you love so much.” I said with a calm tone while trying to ignore him.
He responded with a less angry tone, “what?! Ha! I never thought you would actually make one yourself! Very well boy, I shall wait for my delicious apple pie in the living room, but keep it away from me until it is finished cooking or else I will throw it out the window and shove your arm in the oven! Got it?” he demanded.
I nodded, “yes father, thank you very much!”
Seeing the apple already baked in the oven, I opened it with great caution and removed the aluminum foil off its top. As soon as I saw the perfectly cooked golden brown crust, I smiled at my creation, grabbing a pair of mittens and began picking up the slices of the pie.
Ready to serve, I grabbed the slices of pies and placed them on plate, before bringing them over to father rooms.
There is still something nagging me that I made the huge mistake of my life that will cost our lives dearly, yet I cannot put a finger on what exactly it was. Was it because I tried too hard to perfect the apple pie or did I turn the heater of the oven to its maximum? These are probably just worrying thoughts plaguing my mind, but there is no use thinking about it anymore when I have done my best. All I can do now is sit back and watch him enjoy his favorite dessert.
As I entered with the plate held between my mittens, my father’s attention immediately switched to me, “is that really my apple pie?!” He asked in disbelief, “and why does it look like it has been burnt black?”
I shook my head, smiling sadly as I handed him the plate, “you know I would never dare to lie about anything father! Please take a bite and see for yourself.”
“I swear, this is going to taste like shit if I eat a piece of it!” He exclaimed while taking a deep breath, “but since you say so…” He took a single bite of the pie. The moment he tasted the sweet apples inside, he instantly widened with delight.
I gasped in happiness. For the first time ever, I saw my father smiling after eating something that I made myself. For years now, I always thought that he never appreciate the things I do. Yet, seeing him smile genuinely warmed my heart as it meant more than all those times I have given up on doing the right thing because people constantly abuse and neglect me. It is amazing how one simple act could change someone’s life forever, especially mine.
He stared at me, his smile widening even further, “this is-” his sentence was cut off when my perception of time slowed down, allowing me to observe every detail and nuance of his face with keen observation and clarity of sight. I have witnessed the sensations of blazing inferno coming from the kitchen to the dining room and watched the light glinting off his eyes as they turned into melted flesh. His entire face was burning in flames.
Then the exploding fire consumed everything in its path. In mere seconds, the whole cabin burned to ashes, leaving my fate and existence hanging by a thread as the last glimpses of my father’s smile were burnt before my very eyes.
