A collection of Short Stories

Used To

My father used to hold me as I fell asleep at night. I would stay awake until my tired, young eyes couldn't take the wait any longer for him to come home. I'd wait for hours in his downstairs room, wondering why he wouldn't sleep upstairs with my mother. When he did come back, he held me tight as we drifted off to sleep. Him and I were back together until the morning sun peeked.

My father spoke polish to my mom, the conversations spanned hours as the volume increased. I would listen, I would hear the ups and downs of the voices and watch at the moments washed away. I tried to raise the television volume as Bert and Ernie played. However the words so foreign to my ear drowned out the childhood games. The words unknown became so clear, the hateful speech became parasites, eating at my brain.

My father used to lie to me about where he used to be, it was only until years later that I found out where he went. The strip clubs and bars were where he rather be than with my mother, brothers, and I. I once believed the smell of him was cologne and nothing more. Thinking back, he loved to drink and preferred the beer over his wife, sons, and I. It all makes sense as he hurt my mom during those drunken escapades. Those bruises hidden under the shirt I grasped onto everyday.

My father used to hurt me too, the slaps on my face and the yelling in my ears became normal everyday. One wrong move and the belt came out and threats and hits pursued. I'd run in fear and wait for him to lose interest in me. The hope would be to find a drink and suck on that for a change. Yet I loved him and didn't know better than to wait for him all night. I wished for one day when he didn't raise his hand to fight.

My father used to visit more after the papers were signed. My mother had enough of him and begged his ass to sign-

It's been 5 years since I've seen my dad, yet the sorrows remain the same. I miss his grasp, the beer smell stained forever in his shirt. "I should see him." I think every time I hear his name, but the absence of his screams and hits pull me through. Through the pits of hell he put me in with the language he once spewed. The mental anguish might be gone, bruises and scars have faded away. But the pain will never die as I dream of the times so late at night. I hope to god he's gone for good, no more worries, a will to live. I wish to sleep just one night, not waiting for his embrace.