pens and paper- chapter 2

Pain. Agony. Misery. Suffering. Torment. Torture. These are the words that I would use to describe the one-sided boxing match that would happen between me and my dad on a regular basis. They began a week after my mother was diagnosed with cancer, some kind of sick pain relief for him, a form of morphine to numb the agony he was feeling.

In the beginning I was surprised, surprised that my father, the man who had always cared for me despite his drinking problem, could be so cruel. At first it was just a punch every now and then, a quick smack when my mother’s back was turned, back when she still cared. But gradually, like a person who takes morphine every day, he started to build up a tolerance, one punch was not enough to compensate for the pain he was feeling.  And so gradually the torture lengthened.

5 minutes. 10 minutes. Half an hour. One hour. One hour of constant pain flowing through my body. In the beginning, he would stare into my eyes, pleading for me to understand, begging for forgiveness. But, as the time lengthened, the iciness in his eyes grew and his face became hard and cold like stone. And so, when I heard the screwdriver twist and the lock click, I shuffled away from the door, closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.

One hour later. I collapsed against the sink, pale, bruised arms shaking as I attempted to hold myself up, the lower half of my body was numbed. l had been through this routine too many times before, and if anything, I was thankful for the numbness.

• Wait half an hour.
• attempt to walk.
•  make sure nothing is too damaged so you can still go to work and school.
• stare at the ceiling and wait for tomorrow.
• Do not sleep.

As I lowered myself down onto the cold, tiled floor I went through the checklist in my head, like I had done countless times before. And waited.