He slammed the door open and lumbered in, drunk as always.
"Dad!? You're finally back!" I cried.
He gave me no reply but began to walk haphazardly towards the room. I studied him as he shuffled through the doorway. You could see bruises and scrapes where his sleeves were rolled up and he had one black eye, he had obviously been beaten up again. For a moment I pondered how he could remain friends with the people who did this too him on a regular basis. He had always been a loser but since Mum had left there had been no end to his misery or his drinking. As he neared me he tripped and fell onto me. I struggled to support his weight as he mumbled irately into my ear. His breath was heavy and stank of scotch. I found it difficult to bear but, for my own safety, I held back my complaints.
I slowly stumbled backwards and turned around to let my dad drop onto the torn and stained fabric of the old brown two-seater. He landed with a thud and slurred what I assume to be one of his generic insults or curses. He stopped mumbling when he realised I had stopped listening and in the momentary silence I took some time out from usual thought to consider my surroundings. My so called home truly was a dump, the curtains were torn, there was the beginning of fungus colonies on the wall paper, there was very little furniture and to top it off we had no working ceiling light so the only source of illumination was the tiny wind up lamp on the small table that we had pushed into the corner. Cartman was right. He was right about everything; I was a poor boy and will probably end up a constantly inebriated fool like my father. I sighed in acceptance and stood before my Father hoping that I may talk some sense into him. This action was probably my most reckless and ill-considered.
"Ken, you-" I interrupted before he could begin rambling.
"I've been worried about you! We can't go on like this." I implored.
I tightly closed my eyes, clenched my fists and let a tear trickle down my cheek. Then I readied myself to speak by inhaling deeply only to feel his hand slam sharply into my cheek causing me to bite down on my lip hard enough to make it bleed. Not so much the force but the shock made me collapse to the floor. I winced in pain as I landed on my tail bone. Eyes still shut I Curled up on my side and put my hands on the back of my head in preparation for the next strike but instead of continuing the physical assault he started something much worse. Something that would hurt a great deal more. Something he knew would cut deep into my conscience and scar me.
"You can't talk to me like your Mother you little shit!" he began
"she's gone now but you can't replace her! It's your fault she left in the first place. You're not a son you're just a worthless piece of crap!"
As I opened my eyes I could see tears of rage well up in his eyes. His brow was forced down and he was gritting his teeth. I could see his hot breath rise in the air he snorted and huffed. I thought that was as bad as I got but just then my father forced his foot maliciously into my stomach. I expected another clout to my torso but once again he decided to cut short the violence.
After a while of waiting I lifted my head and looked around. He was gone. I sat upright hoping a new position would ease the pain of my Dad's beating. Then with a splutter I coughed up some blood, bringing to my attention how my orange parka was covered in blood spit and tears. I shook my head to try and focus on my thoughts. The state of my clothes was of little importance now.
My Father's words haunted me. I clenched at the fabric stretched over my chest and cringed at the fervent pains in my chest. What is this pain? Is it guilt or physical injury? I guess any decent person would be thinking of how they could cure their heavy conscience but all I could think was "What is this pain and why won't anyone help me?!"