nosleep

My father died at noon on September 18, 1995. I would remember that day for the rest of my living days because that’s when he last beat me and my mother— a foggy autumn Monday morning. He woke up at about ten, demanded breakfast, and spat it in disgust on the floor after the first bite.

The kitchen door stood slightly ajar, and I peeked through, too afraid to even ask for food with him around the house.

“Damn, devil woman! What is this? Am I a fool to you? Are you trying to poison me? I’ll teach you a lesson!” he screamed as if possessed by ungodly spirits. He would then proceed to beat her. He would occasionally beat me too, but those instances didn’t occur as often. My mother screamed and begged, but it didn’t matter to the monster. He stopped whenever he saw fit to stop —probably when the alcohol voices spoke to him to leave her alive so he could do it again.

“I hope he dies, Mom,” I whimpered. I couldn’t stand to see my mom like that. “I hope he burns in hell for what’s doing to you. All these things you have to endure.”

Because of her swollen face, she didn’t want to say anything. She just moaned, hurt, desperate, and sick of that pathetic excuse of a husband who also wore a father's mask.

He got his much-needed satisfaction and went straight to the village bar. After a couple of drinks, the alcohol erased the few physical and mental human features he had. His skin hung from his face as if the melted right off the bone. He couldn’t speak—all the words came out as the mumblings of a madman, and he lost all sense of direction, mainly meaning he got home walking in zig-zag on the old and beaten country road.

He was an evil, ugly, and bitter man who couldn’t love anything. Hate filled his black heart, and the cyanide of desperation ran through his veins. He didn’t care about anything and only knew to ask for things with a sense of immense entitlement. He bowed down to the only god he knew: ALCOHOL.

The saddest thing was that no one knew how violent my dad was. The rest of the villagers knew him only as a good-for-nothing drunk—one of the many drunks in the village.

My mother did all the work in and around the house. She cleaned, cooked, fed the animals, harvested the garden, and cared for me. She said father wasn’t always like that, but with time, he drank more until he finally gave in and the addiction took over.

I wanted the bastard to die a million times before. I hated him with every ounce of my soul. I wished to never see him again—an all-familiar monster wearing a father’s face.