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My father, the Man

Short story By: niki627
Literary fiction



The story of a boy with an abusive father.


Submitted:Mar 4, 2013    Reads: 20    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


Sitting there in this overly lighted room, surrounded by these immaculate, white walls, he almost didn't recognize the man sitting on the other side of the table. The scenery was just so different from that of their dark and crammed apartment, that even after being told so, he wasn't sure that the Man was his father. And it wasn't just the scenery, it was everything about him. He talked differently; there was a committed respect in his voice as he talked to the police officers. He even looked away from the social worker's gaze, ashamed. He wasn't the man who had left the apartment 3 days ago. He was different. He kept denying the charges that the police officer read. The same words that I had told them. The Man denied them all. Very convincingly, might I add. The officer looked my way, expecting me to insist on the validity of my claims. I gave up. I was tired and just wanted leave. It was clear that I was not going to win this battle. As I was about to tell everyone that I was wrong, that I had exaggerated, and all the other things I had said the previous time, as well as the times before, our eyes met. He saw the surrender in my eyes and reflected an evil spark in his.

The spark was familiar. It only meant one thing. He had seen it before. The last time was in the apartment. The man was there, with the same spark in his eyes, fed with alcohol. He was ready to serve him. The man closed on him, and as he blocked him in the corner of the bathroom, he stopped existing. He left his body and consciously went unconscious. He only allowed himself to come back when the strong smell of sweat and alcohol; mixed together in an unholy marriage had left the room. For a while he just stayed there, alarmed, listening for any sound showing that the Man had not left the apartment yet. He stayed that way as long as the pain caused by his wounds allowed him to. Besides, he was bleeding. The Man didn't like the sight of blood on the floor. The longer he waited, the harder the stains would be to remove. Limping, he went to the kitchen, still quiet, just in case. He got a sponge to clean the bathroom. As he was o all four, making sure he didn't miss a pot, he examined his wounds. It was worse than he expected, he needed stitches. He couldn't go to the hospital; people would ask questions he didn't want to answer.

He looked at the police officer. It was an old cop who had seen it all. He looked like he could sympathize with a little boy's sorrows.

-He is lying. He said with a trembling voice.

The room was quiet. In a white room, around a white table,there sata broken boy and an even more so, abroken man.





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