I awaken as mom's screaming from her bed, telling the kids to get up.
Then she demands to do my hair while dad is sitting on the toilet. The plumes of his cigarette smoke, the can of aqua net. The steady and foul smell of shit make bathroom a torture chamber. I am forced to hold still looking straight into the mirror. Watching my dad wipe his ass a thousand times and then begins to smear. This image that I have tried to block out, although if I tried to block every thing that is gross or shameful, I would have no memories.
Mom sitting on the toilet,
and dad laying in the bath, this is where they want to talk with me about what bad thing I have done. Although this smokey room looking at my parents private parts is punishment enough. If I cover or close my eyes
They will slap me in the face. I think my shyness makes them mad,
I inspire their disgrace. It is ironic how they value appearance and their bar friends view them as upstanding citizens. She will force me to wear a dress too short to cover my panties, yet spend an hour in the torture room styling my hair. Then dump me daily late to school and after that I will wait. I am not allowed to take the bus, nor am I allowed to walk home. Everyday I sit and wait into the dark for my mom to pick me up.
When I was much younger I relied upon the bus, I would go and come from school on time. No one was ever home, and being home alone for me was normal. My life has been at the mercy of my adopted mother's whims. Some nights when she was home alone, she would make me go with her searching the bar's parking lots for my dad's car. She would be angry and cussing why dad went out without her. If she found his car, she would write a nasty note and put it on the windshield. Sure she was drinking her wine while sitting pissed off at home. Then she would get a good buzz going then her anger sets in. Then in the car to drive around to all the bars to find him. When dad would finally get home the shit would hit the fan. They will fight kick and scream late into the night.
When they would go to the bar together, and then the bar would close.
they would fight all the way home in the car. At home as they walk fighting and come through the front door, dad yells "wake up the kids"
Let them watch how cruel there mother becomes. Punching holes in all of the walls, and crying on the floor. Toward the morning winding down
the last stand of the fight. My dad takes out his 38 handgun and threatens suicide. Mom ignores him and goes to bed, while us three children are left to console the crying drunk father with a gun. His last stand of the suicide threats is to throw it through the glass window.
A few hours later when the sun comes up, no one will speak a word
about why we were up all night. My brothers will go out into the grove to find the gun. Dad's breakfast is the hair of the dog, and he will go off to work. Mom will get up late, then stuff the holes with newspaper and plaster away them gone. All will be restored to normal, as long as no
one says a word. Even if I said something, Nobody would have herd.