Dad

my dad was a drunkard
he was the type of man who remembered the name of every rifle in his spare room
but he couldn’t remember the date of his daughter’s birthday
he savored the taste of the whiskey burning its way down his throat
but he didn’t take the time to appreciate how fast his daughter was growing up without him
he appreciated war and tanks, beer and the newspaper, stale popcorn and old movies
he however did not care for report cards and school invitations, the sound of amateurly played violin and stain of dye on the floor, fresh picked out homecoming dresses or the sound of preteen laughter
he enjoyed giving bruises and taking out all the anger he ever pent up on people who showed nothing but love for him and his angry eyes and pouted bottom lip
he’d see my curled hair and nice pink new dress and see the tiniest hint of lipgloss on my eight year old lips after picture day
and he’d picture how he could change that smile into a look of fear
or grief
he took as many tolls as he pleased because he grew up with the saying “one day you’re going to be the man of the house, james, you have to take control”
and he did
anger pulsed through him more than his blood and he’d strike because he didn’t know how to express
any other way
we are told that violence isn’t the answer but I grew up with the protagonist of an action movie
killing the villain in the most inhumane way
and you accept it as rational, if the heroes can do it
it’s okay
but what do you do when you’re eight years old
and you’re convinced you’re the villain?