What happes when you find out that or father is not the man you thought he was?
My name is Skylar O'Carrick and I found out just that. My father used to be my hero. That was until he started beating me.
I was just five when it started. I never knew my mother. She died shortly after I was born. I was raised by my father. One night he came home late. I remember smelling the rum on his breath when he came into my room. I was sitting at my desk colouring.
"Hi, Daddy," I said, grinning up at him.
He didn't say anything. He just looked at me. I held up my picture.
"Look what I did!" I said excited. It was a picture of a dog dancing with a rabbit. Like all five-year-olds, I didn't stay in the lines and nothing was the right colour. I was happy but still Daddy didn't smile.
"You killed her," he murmured.
"Daddy?" I didn't like him talking about death. He always looked so sad when he did.
He glared at me.
"Daddy, you're scarying me," I said, backing away from him. I started crying.
"I'll give you something to cry about," he hissed. Before I knew what was happeing, he back-handed across the face. I fell off the chair. I put my hand up to my face. When I took it away there was blood on it. My lip hurt.
"Please don't hurt me, Daddy," I said after he brought his leg back to kick me.
That kick hit my stomach.
"You breathe a word of this to anyone and you'll die. Do you understand me?" he hissed at me.
"Yes, Daddy," I cried.
Nights were like that everyday until I was eight. By that time I hid from my father. He didn't like that. Every time he found me hiding he would use a metal studded belt.
On my eighth birthday it got worse. Daddy came home drunk. I had dinner ready and got him a beer. He liked that.
"It's your birthday today, isn't it?" he asked me, taking a swig of his beer.
"Yes, Daddy," I cowered. Normally when he asked something, he would hit me.
"Go to your room."
"Yes, Dad."
The bottle hit my throat. I didn't even see him move. There was glass everywhere. I was covered in glass, beer and blood. My throat hurt.
I fell to the ground, holding my throat.
"I don't like being called 'Dad'," Daddy said to me. He tore my hands away from my throat. "Shit." He took out his pphone and called someone.
My throat hurt.
"I need you to come and stitch up my son." Daddy looked back at me. My hands were back to my throat.
"Beer bottle." Everything looked funny. Everything sounded like I was under water, then it went black.
I don't remember much of that night, but I do remember waking up in my bed the next morning.
My throat stioll hurt. I touched my throat. There was a bandage around it. I tried to get up, but I felt dizzy.
My door opened. Daddy was standing there.
"You should get up." He wasn't happy.
I nodded. That hurt my throat even more.
"What?" Dadfy arched his eyebrow.
Yes, Daddy. No sound came out, but it hurt. I tried again. Yes, Daddy, still no sound. I looked ay him, wide-eyed. I could feel the tears in my eyes. I f i didn't answer him he'd hit me harder.
"I thought that would happen," Daddy said to himself. "Keep trying to talk but until you can I get you a notebook and you can write down what you need to say."
Over the years Daddy told some of his friends that he was beating me and that, if they needed to let off some steam, they could hit me too, but only if Daddy was there.
I'm now their slave. I do what they tell me to when they tell me to do it. I'm eighteen now and I haven't spoken a word since the beer bottle incident.
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I've been meaning to post this for a while. Please tell me what you think. Don't be afraid to tell me I can't spell or speak English. I fail a lot
