Daddy's Little Defect

As you pass me in the street, you scoff at me. I’m dirty, bruised, scrounging for sympathy because I lost the fight I was so obviously just in. Or so you think. You look around the busy sidewalk for the victor, out of pure curiosity. He won’t be seen, though. He’s waiting impatiently at my house for round two.

I enter my house slowly, careful not to make a sound. Its useless, however, as my attacker is sitting on the couch, watching the door.

“Welcome home,” he says, his voice calm. I stare at him, showing no emotion. I want to tell him that this isn’t home. I want to say that home is down the street, left on 57th, and behind the building with the shattered windows, the boarded door, and the crooked sign that still says “Pete’s”, though the paint is chipped and fading. But I don’t. I stare, unblinking, into his cold blue eyes.

This is as good as an answer to him. He stands up and walks over to me, his gaze locked on mine. Physically, he’s everything I’m not. He’s tall, whereas I’m short. My ribs could easily be counted; he barely fits through the doorway. He’s strong, I’m weak. My weakness is his fault. It’s his refusal to feed me.

He glares down at me, a malicious smile playing on his lips. The muscles in his right arm ripple, and my stomach clenches. His eyes are still holding mine, and I watch his fist out of the corner of my eye in a defeated sort of way. As it slams into the left side of my face, my head bursts with pain. In my mind, I see my head exploding, impaling my father with shards of my skull, small bits of my brain splattering him and the walls. But instead, I fall helplessly to the floor. His voice is ringing in my ears, scolding me for my worthlessness, for not being more like my sister, who achieved such great honors in college and now has a perfect, high paying job. I, at sixteen, can't compete with that. Unconsciousness is slowly descending upon me, and my last conscious thought drifts mistily through my mind.

Here I am. I’m Daddy’s Little Defect.