My father was a cruel man.
I didn’t realize this until I was older. I thought it was normal to rule a family with an iron fist.
Mother said it was because of the war. Father had seen horrible things during the war and returned as a different person. She told me his friend had died right beside him, his blood and brains splattered on my father’s gear. My father saw dismembered bodies and people suffering from mortal wounds with no immediate help available. Countless times he had feared for his own life as he served our country. When he was finally home, he heard bombs and guns in his sleep.
When he was able to sleep.
My punishments for bad behavior were swift and memorable. No time allowed for explanation or excuse.
“Discipline should be immediate,” he said. “You put other people at risk if you don’t learn what you did wrong.”
I found this to be unfair, especially when I was punished for the actions of someone else. My father went with his own view of family squabbles. My pleas of innocence didn’t matter.
A broken dish would warrant a spanking.
A bike left in the driveway would result in the bike being given away.
I never understood how these small things could put other people at risk.
One time I dropped a bowl of spaghetti. I had finished my meal and was taking the dirty dish to the dishwasher. It slipped out of my hands. To my relief the dish didn’t break, but the leftover sauce in the bottom of the bowl splashed all over the floor and up the cupboard doors.
A hand was immediately at the back of my neck, pushing me to the floor. “Clean it up!” A dishrag thrown on the floor in front of me.
Of course I would clean it up.
I started to clean, fuming because he hadn’t given me a chance to start on my own. From the corner of my eye, I saw his boots planted in a stiff stance as he watched every move I made. I rinsed the rag frequently, the red sauce difficult to get out of the grooves of the linoleum. I wiped down the cabinets and put the bowl in the dishwasher. To my eye everything looked perfect.
I helped clear the rest of the table and believed the incident was over.
At one in the morning, he hauled me out of bed. Bleary eyed, I stumbled down the stairs not comprehending his furious words. In the kitchen he pushed me to the floor again, and I landed hard on my hands and knees. “You missed spots!”
I frantically looked and saw nothing. “Where?”
He slapped the back of my head and I flinched. “Open your eyes!”
I looked closer, running my hands across the floor, not seeing what he saw. “Where is it? I don’t see anything.” Terror shook in my bones. I knew his tone. It meant he needed to administer pain.
His foot landed on my back, crushing me down to the floor, and my nose made a sickening crack. Blood dripped. The new spots on the floor resembled the spaghetti sauce.
“Dammit!” he swore. “Another fucking mess.”
Still on the floor, I slapped my hand to my nose, and pain shot to my brain at the touch.
“Look right there!” He knelt and pointed.
From my view on the floor I could see under the cabinet. The sauce had splashed up under the cabinet and I’d missed it. I blinked back tears, pain still rocketing from my nose. “I see it,” I mumbled, tasting blood in my mouth. My stomach heaved at the metallic flavor.
Don’t puke, don’t puke.
A wet dishrag dropped beside me. I shakily picked it up, keeping my other hand over my nose, feeling warm blood flow between my fingers. I scrubbed at the dried sauce until I saw no more, double- and triple-checking the area. Then I cleaned up my blood.
He stood behind me and silently watched every move.
I stood, rinsed out the dishrag, and then laid a clean one beside the sink from the kitchen drawer. I clenched the wet one in my hand to take to the laundry and grabbed a napkin to hold below my nose. Facing him, I stood silently, my gaze on the floor, waiting to be dismissed.
He made me wait a full ten seconds.
“Did you learn something?” he finally asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Look me in the eye when speaking to me!”
I immediately looked up, my stomach knotting in fear. His gaze was furious, and I hated him. Despised him with every angry cell of my body.
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“No, sir.”
“Go to bed.”
I ran. I put the dishrag in the laundry, grabbed a dark-colored bath towel, and then crawled in my bed, covering my pillow with the towel, terrified to get blood on the sheets. My legs shook for an hour. My nose throbbed, but I didn’t dare wake my mother to ask for help.
I lay in bed and imagined the death of my father.