I want to say right from the start that the animal who sired me was a pure unadulterated one hundred percent bastard drunk. You will notice that throughout this account, not once do I refer to him as my father. Others may have done so, but not me, because I refuse to think of him in such terms. Now I'm not saying any of this to excuse what happened, but I think it goes a long way to explaining why it happened. As the title of my narrative suggests, it is all about cause and effect.
He had got Mom drunk and pregnant the day she became legal in our state. Although neither of them wanted to, both sets of parents insisted he "do the right thing", so they married. We lived with mom's parents, supposedly so we could save enough for a down payment on our own house. At least that was the general idea, but although he had a good job as a mechanic, most of his money went on gambling and drinking with his pals. Mostly on drinking. When I was about nine Granddad started noticing things going missing from his work shed, and when he saw my old man going into a pawn shop with an electric drill under his jacket, he gave him two weeks to find somewhere else to live, although he said me and Mom could stay for as long as we needed to. Eight days later my grandparents were killed when their car ran off the dirt road into a tree, and Mom inherited the house, so for the first and only time we were clear of debt.
Soon after this he showed his true character and turned into the vicious bastard I grew to hate. It seemed as though he was only waiting until her Dad could no longer protect her, because within weeks he began to use my Mom as his own personal punching bag. Any time the slightest thing went wrong, it didn't matter what, a fight with his boss, an inattentive driver cutting him off, or whatever, he would come home and beat the daylights out of her. For the first fourteen years of my life I can hardly remember a single day when she didn't have bruises somewhere. She had a superb figure, but she had to hide it, and the bruises, with high necked long sleeved blouses and shapeless dresses. As I approached my teen years I started trying to protect her, but that backfired, because he would hammer the crap out of me, and then give Mom an even worse beating.
At the onset of my puberty he started to find even more ways to hurt and humiliate her. Many were the times he would rip off her clothes, and force her to show me the angry weals and scratches on her back and breasts, and even the insides of her thighs. After he tired of this sport, he would order her to get upstairs and get ready so he could, in his words, "fuck the shit" out of her. Woe betide her, and me, if she didn't do as she was told instantly, because you could guarantee by next morning we would both be sporting fresh evidence of his sadistic brutality. He was always careful of course not to hit me where it would show, in case my teachers noticed and called in the child welfare authorities.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but by the time I turned eighteen, the sight of Mom's tits and pussy was having the effect I'm sure the bastard intended, and as soon as they went upstairs I would dash to my room, and with the sound of their brutal fucking ringing in my ears, I would beat my meat, imagining it was my loving cock going in and out of her pussy instead of his punishing weapon. Imagining it was my gentle hands on her wonderful boobs, instead of his cruel gouging fingers. Imagining her screams of pain and fear of him were really moans of passion for me.
As I progressed through my teens and my apprenticeship I began to fill out. The hard physical work added muscle, and although I was as terrified of him as Mom was, I began to dream of being able to find the courage to dish out some of his own treatment to him. The last straw came when I was almost nineteen. He had just humiliated her again for the umpteenth time and ordered her upstairs as usual, but when she turned to obey he changed his mind. "On second thoughts, I'll show the pansy here what a real man does with his woman." Mom opened her mouth to protest, but he punched her in the head and forced her face down across the dining table, scattering the remains of our evening meal. This was more than I could stand, and without thinking of the possible consequences I picked up a chair, and smashed it across his head just as he jammed his filthy cock into her. He collapsed in a heap, and after fishing in his pockets until I found his keys I did my best to restore her modesty with the remnants of her clothing, then hurried her to the car.
I had no idea where to go to, but when we were passing a motel it occurred to me that maybe I could book her a room until I could clear my head enough to work out a plan to keep her safe. I had enough cash in my pocket to pay for a single room for Mom, but until I could get to my secret stash I could sleep in the car.
Shit for brains had made me leave school early and start an apprenticeship as a bricklayer, which for those who aren't familiar with trade training means that for the first couple of years I was the general gofer and dogsbody for the real workers. In between clearing up their mess and learning what I could from watching, mostly I ran errands like going to the shop for sandwiches for morning and afternoon breaks and lunches. Often they would tell me to keep the small change, which helped a lot because the rat who fathered me made me hand over my weekly pay packet unopened. I hid this away in a tin in a fork of the tree in the garden, in the hope that one day I would have enough to get my Mom away from him.
I paid for a room and pulled the car up as close to the door as I could, so nobody would see her exposed body through the rips in her clothes, but once we were inside I realised I had another problem. Mom needed something to wear, and I was out of cash. The thought scared the shit out of me, but the only option I could see was to sneak back to the house and try to grab my stash. Leaving her to get some rest, I got back into the car and headed for what used to be our home. Even though it was in Mom's name, I knew neither of us would ever feel safe as long as he was around, and as I drove I thought of how hard I had hit him, and so help me I found myself hoping it had been hard enough to kill him. I knew if I had I would end up in jail, but so long as Mom was out of harm's way it would be worth it. Then it occurred to me that when the cops saw the bruises and scars on us both, there was always a slim chance that a court would rule it as self defence.
To be honest, I didn't really care. I just wanted Mom to be safe. If he was unharmed and caught me, there was still enough hate and anger in me to grab what was left of the chair and try to finish the job. But that was a last resort, - first I would try to slip in through the back gate and reach the tree. I parked the car well away from the house, and felt a familiar knot of fear grip my bowels. In a sudden afterthought I slipped a wheel wrench inside my waistband just in case, and approached as unobtrusively as I could. I thought I was home and dry as I edged in through the back gate, then I froze. He was standing in the yard with his back to me, feeding Mom's clothes on to a huge fire. I turned to retreat, but a gust of wind caught the gate and slammed it shut.
He spun round. "Come here you chicken shit faggot bastard!" he bellowed. "I'm going to kick the fuck out of you. I'm going to kick the fuck out of your slut of a mother too, when I get hold of her." He rushed at me and I stuck out a fist defensively, amazed when he ran straight into it nose first. He took a step back, then snarled and came at me again, arms spread to catch me. Surprised that I had been able to hit him so easily, I swung again putting every ounce of my weight into the punch. This time he staggered backwards, so I hit him twice more and followed up with a heavy boot to the crotch. With an agonised scream he clutched his balls and fell to his knees retching. Ten years of hate welled up, and I grabbed him by the hair, turning his face up to hit him again.
Then I saw it. It was in his eyes, just as it had been in Mom's eyes every day for years. Pure, stark naked fear. It didn't make me feel good to know our positions had reversed, and now he was afraid of me, but it sure as hell felt great knowing that he was feeling what he had made me and Mom feel for far too long. He put his hand up as if to ward me off, and tried to shake his head. "No. Please. Don't hit me again. I'm your father."
In that instant I knew I would never be afraid of him again. Instead of delivering the punch I intended, I gave him a contemptuous back handed slap. "You're no father of mine." I sneered. "You may have fucked my mother, but you've never been a father. You've never even been a real man. You're just a snivelling wife beating cowardly bully, who had the good fortune to stick his filthy cock into a woman who was always too good for you." Pushing him to the ground, I put my foot between his shoulder blades and plucked his wallet out of his hip pocket. He must have had one of his rare wins on the horses, because there was what looked to be close to a thousand dollars in there. Pocketing the wad of notes, I added his credit card for good measure, then threw the empty wallet at him. I stomped on his back as I stepped over him, and turned to look down at him. "I'm going to check on Mom. Don't be here when I get back." He looked at me in a sullen vestige of defiance, and I delivered a kick to his ribs for emphasis. "Do you understand? You – will – not – be - here. And if I ever see you again, or you ever come near Mom again, I – will – kill – you. Have – I - made – myself - clear?" The words were punctuated with kicks to make sure the message got through his thick skull. All the fight went out of him, and he cowered as he nodded in defeat.
As I walked back to the car I realised that I had forgotten all about the wheel wrench in my waistband. This made it all the more satisfying. What I had done I had achieved with my bare hands, and I couldn't believe how easy it had been. Never until now had I ever raised a fist to anyone, and it made me sick to my stomach to know I was capable of such violence, but nonetheless I knew that it was the only language animals like him would ever be able to understand.
