• I watch him filling the large cup with vodka-laced orange juice; the slight reeking smell of it drowns all the sorrows but fills those depressed feelings with a blinding rage. I see him taking down his third glass of the night, “God, stop!” I shout inwardly. I fill my mind with vulgar language; words fly around my mind like birds trapped in a cage. I ball my hands into fists as the want to pound the glass into the ground slowly eats at my innards. He stands and walks to the kitchen to grab a coffee can full of Chex Mix. I enter my room and sigh as I lay down on my bed shutting my eyes for a few moments.

    I hear a crash, and hastily jump out of my bed. I run out to the living room, and see him passed out with the alcoholic beverage dripping off the glass table. A terrible urge to punch him arises in me as I watch this sight. I see Chex Mix spilled over him, "Father. . ." I whisper and walk to the man. I pick him up off the couch, dust him clean of the Chex Mix and bring him back to his room. I lay him on the bed and tuck him in like a parent would do to their child. As I retreat back to the living room I see the mess that my father made.

    I wander through the hall and into the kitchen where I grab a washrag that is hanging upon a faucet. I grasp the small trash can in my left hand before retreating to the carnage my father had left just for me, his favorite son. I begin to think of how this happens every Friday and every weekend. I begin singing a soft melody to myself to calm myself down before I kneel to the ground. I feel a tear slide down my cheek. “Why did this happen?” I scream in my own mind.

    I swallow harshly before leaning over the trash and vomiting. The stench of the Chex Mix and the concoction of vodka and orange juice finally got to me. Tears now stream down my cheeks, into my mouth and down my chin. I try to stay as silent as possible while my eyes grow crimson from crying so much. “I hate you! You never used to do this!” I growl in a soft tone. At this point I would have done anything to make him better. Losing all respect for him at this point, I sigh then my tears away. Contemplating his life without me in it, I imagine it to be a wonderful one where he never drinks and I never say the one sentence a child should never say, “He drinks because of me.” I couldn't stand this drunken father of mine. How much more physical and mental abuse should I have to take to prove how much I love him? I punch hard against the ground hearing my knuckles crack against the dull-white carpet letting my frustration out.

    I punch harder into the ground letting the skin of my knuckles splits open and bleeds. The crimson liquid falls from my skin and onto the carpet. Completely oblivious to the world I pound harder against the ground. Horrid obscenities escape my mouth in a breath, words which I had never thought of saying escape from pure rage. I slam my fist one last time, hearing all four knuckles pop out of place. I finish cleaning up the mess and then walk to my room. Nine years my father wasn’t in my life, so the four years I dealt with his drunken rages gave me a horrible image of this dear sweet man I used to love. Never would I imagine that not doing anything would bring him to such a state of depression that he would draw lines going from his wrist to his forearm. I fall asleep and wait one more week for this entire scene to reoccur much like a broken projection which shows the same movie over and over.