||[Sep. 6th, 2006|10:10 pm]
The Biteage Kid
Injustice has always reddened my vision to a shade so dark it has no name. Injustice is the thing that makes my blood boil until it's nearing the point of evaporation, and injustice is what seeps from my father's skin. Life isn't fair, that's what I've always been taught. What kind of knowledge do I have, anyway? I know this much: might makes anything but right, and brains have the upper hand on brawn. Therefore, it takes next to no contemplation to realize his errors.
When he reenters our home after a less than pleasant day, it's obvious to all company present. I can see it in the heaviness of his footsteps, in the scowl on his face, in the way he slings his keys onto the countertop. The whole process makes me breath catch in my throat, and I know he's brought his day home with him.
I AM A MAN, he bellows. ALL OTHER THINGS ARE SUBORDINATE.
The tears in my hard eyes become amusing and fuel his egocentric fire. I know every word dripping off his lips is a lie, a misgiving that he's convinced himself is true, but I am allowed no counterattacks. The only sounds my voice can make are humble agreements to his accuracy in the accusations he glues over my head. He'll smash me and shatter me on the pavement if I do otherwise.
His nametag reads, "I am the biggest male chauvinist you will ever come across," and he wears it with pride.
I have no clue what gave him the idea that terrorizing his children was a excellent and great idea, and I doubt he'll ever tell me. I am young and inferior and female, and I have no right to anything.
And my mother. The sweet, golden saint. Even she won't come to my rescue. She will come to me after the screaming, the swearing, the rage, the endless list of my shortcomings. She will hold me tight and tell me she loves me, and I know it's true. The supreme insult comes when he insists that I do not care about her. I know with every fiber in me that I treasure her ten thousand times more than I do him. Call it cruel, but it seems that daddy dearest gives me those traits.
He tells me I'll understand one day when I have kids of my own and a "real job," but I'm not so sure about that. My child will never have to hide from me when I've had a stressful day at the office, and they'll never have to conceal their inadequate report cards. My overbearance won't tell me to cut my child's sentences short. I will listen to them. I won't have to show my child love by buying them nice things. They will know, and they'll never doubt it for a second.