The Front Door Slammed
Wham!
I jumped as the front door slammed behind me. Fear washed over me in waves of ice water and I struggled to breathe. I shivered even though it was August and the muggy heat of Chesapeake had previously been sapping every bit of energy out of my old, tired body. It was a fear reprised from childhood when the front door slamming invariably meant pain and humiliation was soon to follow.
I was an only child – mostly because my mother refused to bring another child into the world to face the drunken wrath of my father. Consequently, it was me and me alone who had to bear with the beatings and near-starvation. Surprisingly, my father was never unkind to my mother even when drunk – unless, of course, you counted the beating of her only child as being unkind to her. He never laid a finger on her, almost never had a cross word for her and was constantly bringing sweet, unexpected gifts to her. Usually just before he beat me.
It had, obviously, been many years since my father had beat me – he died peacefully in his sleep more than thirty years ago. No, I had nothing to do with his death, although I had often turned the idea over in my mind more than once - even as a grown man. No, it was a natural thing. He even looked kind and somehow angelic lying there in his coffin. It was all I could do to pretend to mourn but I felt that it was required of me in order to protect my mother. No one ever knew about that side of my father – no one but me and my mom. She had tried to protect me but my father had created a small prison out of a closet and if she interfered, he would put her into it until the beating was done. I'm amazed that my mom retained any degree of sanity at all.
I have never married. How could I risk the possibility that something evil and foul lived within me and could, at any moment, leap out to destroy my family? No, it was better that I remain alone. I turned down all attempts at friendship from the people I worked with, as well. After all, I might strike out at them, too. Who knew how deep the stagnant pool in my heart? People considered me to be antisocial when, in reality, I was doing my best to keep from destroying the social network around me. It has been a lonely and sad life but I can’t do anything to fix it. I mean, who could I tell? Who would believe what I had to say – about my life, my fears or the slamming front door?
