"Dammit Becky, I've been at work all day and when I get home I just want a little peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?" Dad was angry again. This was becoming more and more common. He would spend all day at a job he hated to come home and take everything out on mom. Each episode was worse than the previous one. It wasn't always like this. He wasn't always like this. Every time he would walk in the door it was as if a weight of awkwardness and fear settled on the house. Mom and I both knew he had started drinking again, but refused to say anything. His temper kept getting more and more out of control. If you've ever lived with an alcoholic then you know how trying and stressful it can be. You know how the fear controls you.
I sat alone on the stairs listening to him berate my mother, the same woman that he claimed to love. I was torn apart inside. Torn between trying to protect my mom and trying to not get punched in the face by Dad. I heard a glass crash against the wall. This was the tell tale sign that Mom was really starting to get upset. "Leave me alone, Jim! Sleep it off and leave me alone!" The rattle in her voice told me that she was now crying. Sitting there on the stairs endless thoughts began to flood my mind. "What happened to make Dad start drinking? Why does he have to take it out on Mom? How far will this go before someone gets seriously hurt?" l felt the tears begin to well up in my eyes. The headache from trying to hold back those tears was starting to form right behind my eyes. I knew that I couldn't let the old man see me like this. It would only show weakness and give him more control over this house. In a dash I bolted upstairs to try to get away from the fury and rage that was playing out in the kitchen. "I'll study. That will take my mind off of things," I thought to myself. I had a big test coming up anyways.
Let me give you a little back story. My name is Jason and I am eighteen years old. I had just graduated from high school and instead of going away to college like most of my friends did I decided to stay at home and become a paramedic. I thought that if I were close by then Dad wouldn't get too out of control with Mom. I have never been a big guy and I certainly never was a popular guy. In high school I was that one boy who was always alone. I wasn't alone because I didn't have any friends. I just liked it that way. I enjoyed being able to eat lunch and study in the quad at school without people hounding me or bothering me. My entire life I have been a loner. I am 5'11 and have your average build which always helped me blend into the background and keep out of people's way. My dark hair and eyes I got from my father. It's almost like looking at him every time I look in the mirror. Needless to say, seeing a mean drunk staring back at you in the mirror doesn't do much for your self esteem.
Dad was a different sort except for the facial features. He stood around 6'4 and having been a football player in college he was a pretty big guy. I think that's where a lot of the intimidation comes in. When he was in college he was your stereotypical frat boy. The poster child for douchebags. From the stories I have been told he seems to have grown out of it, but his pompousness will still occasionally break through. But he never really picked on me about my size except for when he did it in a joking and fun manner. Unfortunately I haven't seen the joking side of him in a while. He has had a fairly successful career in the advertising industry. You may have seen a few of his commercials on television. His drinking came in spurts. He would go a couple of years without a sip and then he would fall off the wagon and seem to constantly be drunk.
Mom was a little different. She was your standard southern belle. She was raised in Georgia and her and Dad met in college. She was a cheerleader and class president. While she was extremely popular she never let it go to her head. Dad once confessed to me that she always was able to stop him from being too much of a jerk when they were in college. Like Dad she is forty. They had me right after graduation. She is 5'9 with alabaster skin, blond hair and blue eyes. For forty she has remained in decent shape. She no longer has the cheerleader body, but I don't think that too many women regain that body after having a kid. There is a slight sag to her breasts that come with age and her crows feet around her eyes are starting to show. She still turns heads wherever she goes which always brings a smile to her face since Dad is either ignoring her or yelling at her.
It's kinda weird. When Dad is on one of his sobriety kicks he and I are best friends. At least we were. And when he is off the wagon and spiraling out of control mom and I become best friends. Does that make me a bad son or a hypocritical son? Maybe it does, but that's just the way I am. I've always been a momma's boy and I think that's why I get so close to dad when he gets on a sobriety kick. I don't want him to think that I'm any less of a man. Mom understands me more than anyone else. She lets me be who I am and who I want to be and she has always encouraged that in me. I played peewee football as a kid, but that was just to make Dad happy. I think he just wanted me to carry on his legacy or something like that. But sports was never really my thing. I was always happy with my face in a book. Looking back I think there was a part of me that used books as an escape to get away from Dad's drinking. I would rather be exploring the ocean depths with Captain Nemo than listen to Dad yelling.
Anyways, that brings us back to the story at hand. As I sat upstairs studying my anatomy notes and text book I could still hear him yelling at Mom about something or other. With my door shut the voices were muffled, but I could still recognize the tone in Dad's voice. After a while my curiosity got the better of me and I returned to the stairs to listen in hopes that he wouldn't get too out of control. The closer I got the louder it became. My pulse began to quicken and my whole body began to tremble. I wanted to go protect Mom, but I knew that if I did that it would only make matters worse. I remember one time as a kid I ran into their room while Dad was on a tirade. With tears in my eyes I raised my water gun at Dad and said, "Leave her alone now Daddy! Leave her alone or I'll shoot you." That was the first time my face saw the back of his hand. His menacing laugh that night still echoes in my head. That same night Mom came to me with a tear stained face and puffy eyes. This is my first memory of the effect his drinking had on her. I can still smell the jasmine scent of her shampoo and the softness of her hands as she stroked my cheek and hair. I don't know if it's a mother's intuition, but she always knew how to comfort me and she still does.
"Leave me alone Jim! Please just stop," she screamed through her son's. Her voice was still shaky and rattled. It broke my heart that she was so terrified of her own husband. I knew that it was just a matter of time before he crashed on the couch giving mom some peace.
Her demand for him to stop only seemed to spur him on. "Jesus Christ, Becky! This is my house! I pay the mortgage and the bills and put food on this table! You sit at home all day long doing only God knows what! Why can't you be a normal wife and know your role? You're the reason our son has become such a pussy!!!"
I heard another crash and I could tell that someone had thrown another glass or a plate or something. "He's your son, Jim! He's your only son! How can you speak that way about him? What did he ever do to you except try to make you proud?"
After hearing that I became a flurry of emotions. I was surprised that Mom was defending me while she was having to deal with him. I was even surprised to hear him call me a pussy. He'd told me that he was disappointed in me numerous times, but he had never called me names before. Feelings of fear and anger and surprise were all rising to the surface. My shaking and trembling intensified. My jaws were clinched shut as I ground my teeth. And my face was beet red. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead and chest and back. Before I knew it I had grabbed the nine iron from Dad's golf bag in the hall closet and charged into the kitchen. Those few seconds were a blur. I can still hear his laugh when I threw open the swinging door to the kitchen. It was that creepy mad scientist laugh.
"Who the fuck do you think you are with my golf club," he asked. "When did you grow a pair of balls? What are you gonna do with that thing?"
