Every day, for the past three years of my life, since I was 9, I had felt an overwhelming fear as I walked through the front door, to see the state of my house, to see the state of my parent’s relationship. I would describe their arguments as a storm, but a storm can at least be predicted. With them, there was no telling what was going to happen or when, all I knew was that if there was something, it was going to be destructive. Imagine being a 9 year old, being scared to go home from school, just because you didn’t want to see your parents fighting. Preferring the school bullies, making fun of you for your name, because the bullies never made you fear for your life. That day was no different. As I walked through the door, my mind was racing, replaying the same words over and over again, like it could make a difference, “Please, no one be home. Please, no one be home.” And everything seemed fine, normal even, until I heard the faint sound of talking and what appeared to be crying. As I continued walking up the stairs, I saw where these noises were coming from, my father, my brutal, stone-cold father. I tried walking past him, to my room, without him noticing, but I sadly wasn’t quiet enough.
“Howard.” My heart dropped as I heard my name. I set my heavy bag down and slowly started approaching my father, as if he were a bomb that would blow at any wrong move. As I walked, I saw my father trying to wipe away his tears, his brown eyes filled like a salty sea. I looked over and on his phone was a call with his sister, my aunt. What they were talking about, I had no clue, all I knew was that my gut was twisting and begging me to run to my room and lock the door. As if that would help, it hasn’t helped in the past when he practically broke my door, grabbed my ankle, and dragged me out from under my bed.
His voice broke through my thoughts, “Howard, would you want to come with me to your aunt’s house?” He said it like it was an actual question, but with him, I knew there was no such thing as the word no. I could tell his strong facade was starting to break away with each word, though, as he began crying again. I had no clue what I should be doing at this moment. I had never seen my father cry in front of me, I only heard it late at night when he knew he had drunk too much. Because of this, I did the only thing I knew how to do, mirror his emotions. Not wanting to make him cry harder or to take the explosion of his wrath, I just complied.
As we started walking out the door, he decided he wanted to take our dog with us to meet my aunt’s dog for the first time. I could hear my aunt’s displeasure through the phone, yelling at my father that it would worsen her own dog’s heart problems. But like usual, my father didn’t listen to what he didn’t want to hear and hung up. He yanked my dog’s collar and walked outside, not even bothering to put his leash on.
We got in the car, not wanting to make eye contact with my father, I instead just asked him a question, “Shouldn’t we grab his leash?” Mentioning my dog.
“It’ll be fine, he knows how to behave.”
“What about Aunt Martha, she said—”
My father cut me off with a tone that could make a room full of birds quit squawking. “And I said that it will be fine.” As he said this, I began imagining what the world would be like if a liar’s pants really did catch on fire. If that world existed, my father would have 3rd degree burns right now.
“She’s just exaggerating, it won’t do anything.” While he talked, I looked back at my dog, trying to hide in the corner of the trunk, and saw him feeling trapped in the car. For once in my life, I didn’t have to fake it to feel the same.
