Because of Sam

“You f*****g cunt!” Dad advanced on Louise, who was cowering under the table in the kitchen. “You’re just like your useless b***h of a mother, with her sniveling, whining ways. Good riddance to her. Now get out here, you little s**t!” Dad reached under the table and grabbed my sister by the wrist, yanking her out so hard I heard her shoulder pop. She screamed in pain, and as Dad lifted a hand to smack her, I held onto his arm. “Stop, Dad. Please! Why are you doing this?” I said, my scrawny, eleven-year-old body no match for his height and strength. But I had to try. “You’re hurting her. You’re hurting us!” He shoved me away, but at least he’d stopped harassing Louise. Dad picked up the beer he’d been drinking and swallowed the remains of the bottle. He wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve, then grabbed the neck of it. “You think you can talk to me like that? Goddamn pansy. I’ll show you how to be a man.” Dad hauled me to him with one fist in my shirt and pushed me into the wall by the fridge. “I’ll teach you to interfere in things that don’t concern you, boy.” And then he took his first swing at me with the bottle. * * * * It was as clear as if it had happened yesterday. Dad hadn’t cut my face the first time, but the blow to my cheek had still hurt and I’d writhed in agony. No, it was the second, third, and fourth swings which had done it. The sound of my screams, and those of my sister, had eventually gotten a neighbor to call the cops. When they came and busted down the door, Dad had been standing over me, breathing heavily, and yelling at me to stop bleeding. As if that would have been possible. I remembered that there was blood everywhere and seven-year-old Louise had been whimpering and rocking herself where she had lain on the floor. When the police arrived, the floor had been red and one of the cops had gasped at the scene. Dad had been kicking me in the ribs by then, having thrown the bottle in a corner somewhere. He’d called me names I’d rather not recall. They had taken him away, and my sister and I went to stay with an uncle. Louise and I never talked about that time, but the memory of that encounter was always with us—and on my face. As the years went by, I’d heard that Dad had died in prison, but I didn’t care. It was bad enough to have had him as a father. But to see his ugly mug staring back at me in the mirror, along with the scars he’d left behind, was much, much worse. When I’d left my uncle’s house at eighteen, Louise and I were practically strangers. Our dad had made us that way, and we didn’t know how to bridge the gap. I’d heard it said that tragedy brings families together. Well, in our case, it created a huge divide. I hadn’t spoken to my sister or heard from her since I left home. I arrived at my condo building half an hour later. When I let myself inside, my eyelids were heavy. I decided that a shower was too much to ask at this hour, so I simply collapsed face down on the couch and was soon lost to the world.