Sixteen

Just the sight of him that day gave me a feeling, and I knew. I was getting off the school bus when I noticed him a few feet up the road. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and a cloud swooped over my head. I didn't call out to him, or chase after him. I just walked. Frankly because I wasn't even certain if that was him on his way home that early in the day when he should have been at work, but also because if that was him I knew something was wrong, or something will be.

I noticed that we were walking the same path and that is when I became certain that it was him. I tried to pull myself together and keep my cool, mentally prepared for what I felt deep down was coming. You see, he is a very predictable man. As we were both approaching the same destination I couldn't continue creeping behind him so I brushed my curls behind my ears, dropped my shoulders, and stood up tall to greet him at the door of our house.

He looked at me in confusion as if I wasn't suppose to be home at 3:30 in the afternoon. But I was. I get out of school at 3, the bus ride is like 20 minutes and then the walk is like 10, but apparently he doesn't know that. He had never really been involved in my school life or anything.

He started questioning me.

"Where did you just come from... Oh please you probably just jumped out of some guy's car... keep on thinking I'm stupid... I know what you do."

He slurred out all of these words while stumbling through the house. I wasn't surprised that he chose an argument with me that day. I did nothing wrong, but in his eyes I am a liar, and to be honest, a slut. He mumbled on and on about how he knew about my nonexistent boyfriend and that I am a deceitful liar and have no respect for him. He said that he is the one in charge. He continued to sway around angrily with his face fat, sweaty and swollen like a red tomato.

I really tried to keep quiet. I would stand there and just let him yell. But he wouldn't stop. I would walk into my room and close the door and he would just barge right in and continue calling me names. He called me a bitch. A whore. I couldn't keep my mouth shut for long. I called him a crazy drunk and told him he was talking nonsense. And he told me to grab my stuff and get out of his house and to not come back because I am not welcomed. So I did. I grabbed my stuff and rushed to the front door.

You see, he didn't really want me to go. He wanted the authority to be able to throw me out. I would have actually been relieved if he was serious. But instead, as I rushed towards the front door with my school bag thrown over my shoulder, my hand barely on the door knob, I felt his warm, heavy breathing behind me. The stench of liquor was leaving his mouth. He took hold of my arm with a grip in which I could feel his fingers pressing into my wrist leaving marks as he dragged my 110-pound body away from the exit. He balled up the collar of my shirt into his hand as he made a fist with the other and slammed me up against the wall. I became angry because I so desperately wanted him to hurt me. That way, I could leave for good and have every right to. That way, I couldn't be told I am over-exaggerating my domestic situation.

I screeched to the top of my lungs "Do it" over and over again.

That is when he told me, "I can do this because I am your father and you are only 16."