Untitled Child Abuse Revenge

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The first thing you need to understand is that what I did, I did because of hate. Hate isn’t the best excuse, but if anyone found out what I did and asked why I did it, I would tell them that when you absolutely loathe someone from the core of your very being, you’d be surprised at what you could do.


I’m from some piece of shit town in the middle of the Bible belt. Coweta, Oklahoma. Population: Somewhere around 7,000. Among those 7,000 were my father and myself. From an outside perspective, I had a pretty good life. There’s a saying that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and my book is a horror story.


My father was a habitual drinker. He would get home from work and he would drink and entertain himself, and apparently beating the shit out of me was pretty damn entertaining. He’d been doing this since I can remember. He never hit me in the face.  I had countless bruises along my body, but never in the face. He would be pleased with himself about the fact that no one could see the bruises. I know this because as he would slam me against the wall and yell at me for whatever half assed excuse he could, he would tell me that no one would believe me.


In this “Good ‘Ole Boy” community, he was practically a saint. He was the man who raised his son from birth after his wife passed in the delivery room. So in a way, he was right. No one would believe that the widower who would donate to the church and a coach for the little league baseball team could even be capable of inducing so much harm on his teenage son. There was even a fundraiser to raise money for his medical bills after his first heart attack. The doctor had told him to quit drinking and smoking, but my father was thick-headed. Everyone would just sigh and smile, like it was ridiculous to try and get him to stop. I didn’t want him to stop, I wanted it to kill him. I wanted him to feel as much pain as I in my life.


I had come home from work, with dinner for the old man and myself. I opened the door and sat the food down in the kitchen on the table. My father had been drinking, and was sitting in his recliner. He looked at me with contempt, and averted his eyes back at the television which had some interchangeable sitcom on. I noticed that he kept clearing his throat and just generally looked under duress, if it were anyone else I might have given a shit. By the time I had brought him his food, he wasn’t moving. His eyes were open and looking at me and it was clear: He was having another heart attack. My first reaction was to call the ambulance. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the numbers but something in me wouldn’t let me press call. I looked at him and his eyes showed confusion and pain. I know this is my moment. This is what I had been waiting for my entire life. I sat the phone down on the living room table and sat on the couch opposite his chair. I watched his expression turn from confusion to outrage. It didn’t matter to me. I’m getting my victory.


“My entire life, you’ve treated me like shit.” I say slowly and clearly, making sure he understands exactly what I’m telling him, “And now, you worthless motherfucker, I get to watch you die.” 

Created: Aug 17, 2012

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