I was bored in school. I excelled at language, English, literature, and earth sciences, which meant I did all right until high school. I manage three years of high school, and then I dropped out. I was done. Now, my father had been physically, mentally, and emotionally abusing me since I was a wee babe, same for my brother. He drank a lot. So... he wasn’t thrilled.
Well, I decided--on my own--to get a job. I started out at Michael’s Arts and Crafts. I loved my job. But, it was up to my father to drop me off and pick me up for my shifts. I think I worked about three days before the bomb dropped. I was doing well, I was proud of myself, I was making my own money.
And then my dad had to shit on it all. He brought me home after closing, already drunk (yay, drunk driving!), and I sat down in the kitchen to just cheerfully tell him how good of a day I’d had, how I catching on so fast. I was proud of myself (a rare feeling for me)! And he just reamed me for being an utter failure, a huge disappointment, and I... broke down. I was sobbing in the kitchen, and I was crying so loud, it literally woke my mother from a sound sleep. She came out demanding what he’d done, and he says he was telling me how it really was. Mom sent me to bed and they argued.
I randomly remembered this today. This month, my dad has been dead for three years. And he died believing he’d never done anything wrong to either me or my brother. He died thinking he’d been a good dad.
And part of me remembers times he was good.
Then, there are these parts. Minefields in my mind.
Three years, and I still get these gems cropping up in my mind. They should have died with him.
