WHEN I WAS ABOUT 12.
I pissed off my father.
About what, who the fuck knows.
I was sitting in my bedroom and he came in and started saying shit to me.
Then he left.
I yelled, “You’re fucking stupid!”
Which was true.
He didn’t know much of anything, and had no interest in knowing about anything.
He was down the hall when I called him stupid.
He turned around!
Bolted at me!
Jumped on me!
Starting punching me in the face and chest!
Screaming obscenities at my head!
His face was full of anger!
Throbbing hatred!
Terror!
Horror!
I remember looking up at his face.
His anger had nothing to do with me.
I set something off in him.
Some pain.
Some terror of the past.
A truth he could not stand to take.
I was beaten brutally by my father several times, and I don’t think I ever did anything that bad.
His anger was at the world.
At other people.
At his employers.
They had stolen his life.
His time.
His work.
All Stolen.
I didn’t know what his anger was derived from when I was twelve, but in my twenty-forth year of human existence I’m starting to learn.
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Antagonism Childhood / Nostalgia Commentary Family
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