I should begin by saying that this is in no way based on my relationship with my own father. He was, and is, a wonderful, loving father. This is not about him. And now the writing.
When I was six years old I had the nerve to go outside to play with my friends, leaving a messy room behind. You screamed in front of my friends “get in here you spoiled brat”, then made me stand in the corner of my room as you threw every toy I had left out at me. I’m sorry dear father.
At ten my failure to wash the dishes and vacuum the den earned me a race around the house with you yelling at me that I was useless and a poor excuse for a daughter. You sprayed your beer-infused spit in my face as you screamed at me, tears running down my face. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again
At twelve, you couldn’t find your precious coin collection and were convinced that I stole it. You yelled at me that you were going out to get shit-faced and that if you died that night it would be my fault. I ran out after you to stop you. If I had not moved in time you would have backed right over me in your haste to get to the bar. Please don’t die tonight dear father.
Now, at 16, you were drunk by noon, again. Going on and on to me about how ugly I was, that no one would ever want me. And why don’t I put some clothes on because I look like a tramp. I’m sorry my shorts and t-shirt offend you, you SOB. It’s 85 fucking degrees outside. I turned to go to my room and you stumbled your way down the hall behind me. I was leaning over next to my bed when you walked in. You slapped my ass you pervert. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you felt the end of the barrel of the gun in your chest. Go to hell dear father.
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