Stories on Fire (unedited)

Begin the story with this sentence:

The ground rumbled as the thunder cracked above.

The ground rumbled as the thunder cracked above. Lightning flashed, illuminating my bedroom as I tossed and turned.

It is hard for me to recall the last time I genuinely had a good day when I was living with my parents, but that day seemed to be worse than most. My father came home in one of his moods, and he did not even come in the house to greet everyone before venturing out to his workshop to grab a beer.

Just as we began to wonder when he was going to come home, he came in through the backdoor, and my mother and I knew right away it was going to be one of those nights. He had already been home for hours and was already drunk. Without missing a beat, he began to complain about everything.

Mama had cooked dinner that night, but she had cooked the wrong dinner. She was never much of a mind-reader, and my dad was not much of a “call ahead if you want something specific for dinner” kind of fellow.

The house, for the most part, was clean. There was a pile of laundry on the couch, waiting to be folded, but I had just gotten off work myself after an already long day at school, and I still had homework to do.

However, there was something about the sight of me relaxing in front of the television that just made him see red. Without saying a word to me, he stormed into the computer room, only to storm back out when he saw my mother was currently using it.

He began walking around the house, complaining how he never gets to use the things he pays for, even with all the work he does around the house. My mom heard his muttering and, with a heavy, frustrated sigh, she got off the computer and went back into the kitchen, while my dad went back into the computer room to type up another list for me.

This is how he communicated with me when he was drunk, which I suppose, was a good thing. There were times it was so bad he would yell or scream, even throw and break things. Then there were the days I do not talk about, but not today. Today he was typing out yet another list of things he expected me to do around the house, while putting me down in every possible way.

Sensing the storm that was about to come, making the actual storm outside seem like a small drizzle, I turned off the TV and got up to fold the clothes.

Mama, who had also worked all day, was putting away the dinner she had made for that night and began making the dinner my dad had wanted instead. I could sense she was pissed off about it, I was too, but neither of us felt like dealing with his abuse that night. Yeah, my father did do a lot of work around the house … on weekends … when he was sober, and he occasionally fixed things inside the house when they broke or – most likely – when he broke them. However, my mom had a full-time job as well, and when she got off she had to come home and work again. She did not save it for the weekends like he did, she could not. Our house would have been a disaster if she had.

I helped as much as I could, but when I cooked, he complained that the food tasted like shit, so I only did it when my mom asked for help or when she was too tired to cook. I was still in high school at the time, but I also had band practice on Monday and Wednesday, then on Tuesday and Thursday I had a job at the grocery store, stocking shelves for a couple of hours before I went home to get started on my homework. Fridays was usually game night, so I would not be home until after he was already asleep.

On weekends I would help around the house, but I also had school events on weekends as well. Still, if you were to ask him, we never did anything, while he did everything and got no thanks for it.

After I folded and put away the clothes, I went to my room to work on my homework. I found the list he had made for me taped to my door, and I promptly took it down and crumpled it up like I did with all the others. No sooner than I had sat down and cracked open my textbook, I heard him talking with my mom about how lazy I am, and how I should be the one cooking or at the very least helping with dinner.

This coming from the very man who said my food tastes like shit.

He was talking to her, but by how loud he spoke, I knew he had intended on me hearing him. I rolled my eyes and closed my textbook. I went into the kitchen while my dad sat in his recliner. He turned the TV on to whatever sports game was playing that night, and turned the volume up so loud, my mom and I had to shout to hear each other.

She told me to go back to my room and work on my homework, but I knew better. I stayed in the kitchen and helped her finish dinner. I made a plate for my dad since he could not be bothered to do it himself and brought it to him.

He ate and passed out in his chair, snoring so loud we could hear him over the TV as I helped my mom clean up the kitchen.

I put my uniforms in the washing machine while my mom turned the TV off. Now, there was nothing but the sounds of his snoring, rattling the walls worse than the thunder ever could.

Whatever.

I went to my room and put my headphones on, determined to finish my homework so he could not hold that over me later.

My mom did not even bother to wake my dad when she went to bed. She went to the computer room to relax for a while before heading to bed herself, leaving my dad in his recliner.

I finished my homework, threw my now clean uniforms in the dryer, and went to bed myself, ready to start it all over again the next day.

However, that night, the storm worsened. Dreams of nights when my father’s drunkenness were not so tolerable plagued me as I slept.

Lightning struck outside my room then, with such a noise that I jumped out of bed. Still half-asleep, I looked around, expecting to see my door in pieces and my dad standing over me in a rage. In my dream, he had been beating on my door, but when I awoke, then was nothing but the loud rumbling of thunder, growing softer with each passing second.

I looked at my door, still in one piece, and still locked.

I hugged my knees to my chest and wept.

Whether I was crying with relief or just from the stress of living with a drunk, abusive narcissist … I could not tell. I was just crying.

That night stuck with me for the rest of my life, and the people in my life now often wonder why, when there’s a bad thunderstorm outside, I stare out the window with such a concerned look etched into my features.

It is because the storms trigger something dark. A nightmare that was once my reality that I never thought I would escape from. That night had not been so bad, but there were others that I still to this day cannot bring myself to talk about.

Even now, I never really escaped him. I moved several states away, but I’ll get the occasional voice mail or text message, reminding me how worthless and ungrateful I am. How selfish it is of me to not call or visit, as if he does not exist.

He apologized to me only once, but then the abuse started again when I did not accept his apology as quickly as he had hoped.

I keep wondering if I will finally be free when he passes away, or will the memories of what he did linger over me, like those dark thunder clouds, forcing me to relive the nightmare, unable to move on?

Only time will tell.