My Father visits me in the night.  He kicks me out of the house I grew up in, for whatever reason.  There’s never really a reason.  But he screams and he yells and he chases me down the cul de sac, spewing curses and throwing household appliances.  Glasses.  Picture frames.  Pencil holders.  I’m terrified.  I cower and run.  What else can I do?

    My mother is there, as well.  She trails behind him.  Pleading.  Crying.  

    But he doesn’t hear her.  He never hears her.  The rage in his eyes is rampant.  When I glance back, I’m grateful for the occasional glare that glides across his glasses.  

I’m soon to the street and I stumble to the middle.  Hoping a car will stop, or at least hit me.  Wake me.  Free me from this beast.  But they all swerve to safety.  And my Father just nears and nears.

I’m not sure how this all ends.  It eludes me.  It always eludes me.  And perhaps that’s for the best.  Perhaps my heart might actually stop if I feel his leathery hands grasp my arm.  Or smell the beer on his breath as he reprimands me.

   
    But this is all nothing new.  This is nothing that hasn’t been ingrained into my skin.  Into my being.

    It’s good seeing him though.  It’s been quite sometime.