It is in the shelter of each other that people live
He sat on the luxurious bed staring straight ahead, life downed out to amplify the clock...Tick-tock. It was only a matter of time before the front door downstairs opened up like a heavy red curtain to a stage, revealing the true story.
He heard footsteps ascend the wide staircase, growing louder with each step, yet he did not move. The front door flew open and the footsteps entered the room coming to a halt in front of him. His gaze slowly roamed upwards starting at the black business shoes, up the dark tailored suit to finally rest on an unshaven jaw, a prominent straight nose and glazed over blue eyes.
His voice empty, void of respect but more importantly, void of fear. It had taken him years to no longer feel the weight of his father’s hand and even longer to become fearless of it. He was now both taller and stronger than his father but he did not defend himself. He absorbed his fathers wrath fuelled fists and allowed the blood to flow from his mouth without retaliation. The only sign of rebellion being his refusal to cower in fear, from which his father fed off. “Rather me than her”, he thought.
His attitude changed the day his father turned his hand to his little sister, Lucy. At nine summers old, she was defenceless and vulnerable. A piercing scream awoke him the night, followed by a dull “thunk”.
He ran to Lucy’s room to find her unmoving body crumpled on a heap on the floor- his father waving a pistol around like a white flag. An ironic symbol of surrender and peace in the hands of the oppressor himself.
Rage tore through his body, racing through his bloodstream before a deadly calm settled in his soul. This man in front of him, this father figure, was barely worth the title.
Standing over his father, the oppressor had become the oppressed. He heard pathetic pleas emitting from the...