Daddy's Home

Daddy's Home

- Look what your father's doing to me.

But we didn't want to look. We knew it all too well.

- And what about what mommy did to me? You weren't there, were you? I'll show you my arm in a minute.

- You bastard, don't talk like that to the children.

- Will you ever shut up? Wait... I know how to make you shut your fucking mouth.

The next punch sent her into the living room. She stumbled over the sofa and lay still on the floor. In a daze.

- Next time I'll smash your teeth, slut!

Michael was just as scared as I was. But daddy never hit us. Ever. He used to hit mommy all over the place, up the stairs, down the stairs. He mopped the floor with her body, with her blood, with her tears, with the whiskey he'd hit to the ground. But he never hit us.
- Such a great example for the kids! They should give you the award for 'Mother of the Year'.
- And what about you? 'Boxer of the year'?

- Shut the fuck up, bitch!

It was not always like that. There were also normal days. On those days we would take our bikes and make a trip to the woods or to the moorland. Daddy'd make our sandwiches, fix our saddles, lube our bicycle chain. It took mommy a long time before she left the bathroom. Camouflage of the previous day, which was not a normal day at all. Daddy'd buy us an icecream near the playground. Mommy'd be the only woman in the park wearing sunglasses. We'd play on the swing. Daddy'd push us, mommy'd try to nap on the bench. We'd play on the climbing frame. Daddy'd read his paper. Mommy'd disappear. The last mile we'd race home. Mommy'd always lose, but no surprise there. The way she'd ride her bicycle. In the evening, in front of the telly, she'd fall asleep.
But at least nothing else happened on those days. No broken glass. No falling chairs. No cordon bleu simmering on the kitchen floor. No hands around mommy's throat. No blood on the painting. No ripped summer dresses. No four-letter words. No death threats. No wielding belt. No smothered cries of pain in the room next to ours. At night. When we didn't sleep. All of those things happened on those other days. Let's call them abnormal. Because that's what they were.
- Shut up, bitch!

- Look at what daddy's doing to me, kids.

- Drunk bitch! Shut! Up!

But we didn't want to look.