| Fear. Was I afraid to die? No. Sometimes it felt harder to live. I was more afraid of hurting someone. As if my untimely death, or one I inflicted upon someone else, could cause them pain. Emptiness. The sort of emptiness I'd felt the morning I'd been told my Mother had died. I'd felt so alone. Unable to share my grief with anyone. I'd wondered if I was to blame. Maybe if I'd of been more obedient, timid to my Father. Maybe if I'd of tried harder. I wasn't sure what. I'd never been sure. I'd never known what I did that was so wrong. Why he took such great pleasure in beating me. He'd say he didn't. That it hurt him. But I saw the look in his eyes. You can't hide that look. The excitement, The glee. The anticipation of something you enjoyed. Maybe it would of been better, if I hadn't been born at all.
Did I fear my Father? Yes. I hated what he made me feel. The power he'd held over me all those years. The fear I'd feel when I knew he was home. The way I'd try to slink past him unseen so I could hide in my room. I hated that my door didn't have a lock and the devastation, I'd see in my Mother's eyes. I hated that she was too scared to speak out. That we lived secret lives. I hated that he was strong and I was weak.
I'd wake in the middle of the night. Bathed in a cold sweat. My Mother would say they were only nightmares. My Father would say I was weak. That I needed to be disciplined. Like I was his dirty little secret. I couldn't tell them that I'd dreamed of escaping. That in my mind I'd tried to scale the tallest wall. My fear! And as I was close to the top, I'd lost my footing. I'd feel myself falling. That at the bottom, there was never death. There was only my Father, waiting. And so the world would slowly close in around me. Leaving me feeling caged. Surrounded by darkness in an ever confining box.
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