Just a Child

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
My father was a drunk, my mother left him and I. What will happen to me?

Submitted: May 26, 2013

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Submitted: May 26, 2013

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Just a Child:

We live in an old house in the middle of nowhere. I guess for good reasons though. You see, I was abused by my father when i was about nine years old. I'm pretty sure my life back home was about as terrible as it is now. My father was an alchoholic and my mother left me when my father started drinking. He always lost his temper and would often hit me. I was naive little boy and just a child. It was one night when my father returned home from the bar he always went off to that something happend, something...strange. My father came bustling in and shrugged his coat off and tossed it over the chair that my mother used to craddle me in. I peered out from around the kitchen corrnor and didn't make a sound. I could tell he was drunk. The way he swayed when he stood and the grumbling noises he made as he walked. As my father removed his glasses he knocked a plate from the counter. It fell to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces when it met the floor. He yelled a word I won't repeat and looked around the kitchen. He was looking for me. By now I was breathing  pretty hard, I knew I was going to get a severe beating today. Thats when I snaked around the corrnor to the shattered plate. Maybe if I sweept it up and threw away the broken bits I wouldn't be hit as hard. "Hello father." I practically whispered. My father turned from the empty fridge he was searching through and squinted his beady eyes. He was a big man. Not burley but large. Then he let out an outrageous roar and lumbered towards me with his fat arms outstretched to strangle me. My eyes widened and I took a step backwards. I looked to the counter and reached towards the dirty knife. I was just inches from reaching it when my father smashed into me. It knocked the wind out of me and I lay on the dirty floor gasping for a breathe of air. My father looked up to the counter and saw where my eyes looked. The knife lay halfway off the counter. My father look down at my balled up body still trying to regain my breathe. I looked at his meanicing, black eyes. I looked at his clenched fists raised above his head ready to smash into my fragile, little chest. I kept my eyes open, there was no way i would cower from him now. It felt like an eterinity, maybe it was, why wasnt he hitting me? Why wasn't I sprawled out with him pounding me to death? Something warm dripped down onto my stomach, I looked down and saw the syrupy red liquid drip dropping from my father's belly. I screamed. The color drained from my father's face, he dropped down to his knees and fell to the ground in a red mess. I ran to the nearest phone and dialed 911. I couldn't remember much after that, just feeling sick to my stomach and then falling to the ground after the 911 opperator told me they were on there way. The next day I woke up in a soft hospital bed with a bad headache. The docor came in and explained to me "I did the right thing" to call 911, but  he also said that my father died from blood loss. One question lingered in my mind, a question that wouldn't leave me in peace...who stabbed my father?  


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