Bebo

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	Fear
	I saw him in the distance and instantly flinched. Panic flooded through me as I contemplated running away instead of facing my fear. He hadn’t seen me yet; there was still time to escape. He was facing the opposite direction, impatiently checking his watch. I remembered that look and my stomach lurched. I remembered the last time I had seen him. A drunken mess. Year after year he became progressively worse, leading me to wonder was it me? Did he yell and shout nasty things to me because they were true? A careless punch and a blackened eye locked away my self esteem; daily insults threw away the key. Day after day, week after week, month after month. Me, staring at the ground. Him breaking our windows, my ribs, drinking our money away. Fear ran my life, I dreamt of a new one. Ending it for me would have been easy but my heart wouldn’t let me even though it was broken. She never defended me, died and left me to bear the brunt of all the pain. Lies protected him, ensnared me further. I couldn’t take it, felt weak and abandoned. His fist was like an axe, his voice was my nightmare. I shook when I heard his key in the door. Each opened can watered a tear, each bottle smashed a shard of my innocence. Building up, always building up, rage for rage, power for power. I became like him. I didn’t know any other way. I needed to get out. Anger simmered within until I couldn’t contain it any more. At least it was my anger. I was more in control than when it was my fear. That last day had been the worst. He was angry because someone had laughed at him in the pub so he saved it up and took it home, ready to take out on the easy target, me. Just like always. The usual scene. He, already drunk, stumbled home, a bottle of whisky bought out of our rent money in tow. At first, he acted nice, charming, and even charismatic; you could see why so many people liked drinking with him. He drank more, making me sit in the room while he told stories. The same stories about when his life went well. The drink, always the drink, ruined it. He remembered being laughed at, told the story with an ugly look on his face. Clung to the story like it was his life and repeated it, over and over again, enraging himself. He thought of more, probably imagined, slights and turned. His face red, he turned on me. Stood over me, nearly screaming, foam spitting and landing on my clothes, breath, hot and sour on my skin. I made my mistake. I wiped spit from my cheek and this was what he attached himself to. How dare I? I was paralysed by fear. I knew what he was capable of. Drink and anger gave him untold strength. His fist connected with my face and my body flew across the room. I could feel hot blood trickle down my face. He smashed what little ornaments we had left, threw a clock at me as I struggled to get to my feet. It hit my stomach and knocked the wind out of me. That combined with the blood made me vomit right there. I was pale, scared and sweating. He would kill me, I knew he would. Maybe not today but someday. I couldn’t let him away with it. He laughed at me. Laughed harder as I strode toward him, wiping the blood from my face with the back of my hand. The laughter got to me. After everything he had done to me. Instilled fear into my very soul. Diminished my spirit. Broke my heart. All of the beatings, pain, tears and suffering came to me in that instant. Each and every name he called rang in my ears. He was evil, he couldn’t hurt me anymore. I snarled at him like an animal, told him he could never put a hand on me again. His laughter stopped momentarily as he stared at me in disbelief. He surprised me though, by grinning madly as if this was what he had been waiting for. He finally had something to teach me a lesson for. He lashed out and hit my ear with his forearm, I tripped but he came after me, preparing to stamp on me. Adrenalin pumped through my system. Time slowed down. I kicked him as hard as I could. I aimed at his knee and he fell backwards roaring with anger. Finding energy out of nowhere I leapt up, full of rage, picked up the closest thing to me, a small lamp, and smashed it across his face as he rose up again, purple in the face. He collapsed on the ground. For a change, his blood stained the carpet. I couldn’t see him take a breath. Fear mixed with relief as I knew I was free from him. I banged on my neighbour’s door, asking for help. She glanced knowingly at my face and told me to run. Never come back. I did. I lived on the streets; I did what I could to survive. I knew he was alive but I didn’t go back. Why would I? I had finally escaped from him. Except not from his power. It still held me. I was still scared. I thought I was worthless because he had told me so. I was nothing. I could do nothing. I was worth nothing. I deserved all that he put me through. I deserved to suffer. But one day it clicked. I was allowing him to have this power over me. It was easier to keep blaming him than to change. I couldn’t let him win; not now I had escaped. I did change. I proved to myself that I was worth it. I proved to myself that I could do something, a lot of things, in fact. I proved to myself that a violent drunk could not run my life. So here I stood, still staring at him. I could go forward, face him, and move on. I could run away, give him back his power and let him away with it all. It was my choice. After all this time, I couldn’t give up now. Who was he to make me feel this way? I inched towards him, growing more confident with each tiny step. The closer I got, the more clearly I saw him. This monster who had seemed so tall, so immortal was nothing but a small, weak, pathetic little creature who had drunk himself to sickness. I was confident now and strode towards him. He turned and saw me. We both stood still as the recognition and memories clouded his face. I could do this now. I could face him as me. Someone who could not be intimidated. I could close the book on this part of my life. Never forgiving but being able to move on from it. I nearly pitied him. He looked fearful of me. I moved towards the man who had made my life hell, my father, finally ready to let go of the past.
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