Dysfunctional
The drinking. That's how it would usually start. He'd demand that I bring him a drink, so I did. I didn't want to, because I knew soon the drinks would just multiply and he'd get more and more demanding with every beer I brought him. That was his drink of choice. It was easier to explain away if anyone ever came around asking questions, because everyone in our neighbourhood had beer in their house.
Then came the yelling—more from her than him. She was the one who really liked to tear me apart with her words, he preferred to use his fists when he did his dirty work. She told me almost every day since I could remember how worthless, lazy and wild I was. If I was lucky, she would get so worked up that she'd throw me out before he got a chance to get to me. But most days she didn't even give me that.
He liked to start in on me while she was still yelling—I suppose to give me double the pain. Her words stung as much as his belt. And the boards stung more than his belt. There was nothing I could do. When he was angry like that, no one could stop him. It's not like anyone ever tried to anyway. She didn't care, he could kill me in front of her and she wouldn't lift a finger. It would just save her a sore throat in the morning. They didn't work together, really—they just had one common goal, to get my spirits down as low as they could. And just when I thought they couldn't sink any lower, he would give me one last belting and I didn't think I would ever get out of there.
But I did. They had to at least pretend to be normal parents who loved their son. So I was allowed to go to school. And to them that was a privilege, one they could easily take away. I didn't say anything. I rarely did, and I never let them see me cry. My friends were the only escape I had, the only ones who were always there for me, but even they couldn't take the place of parents who loved and cared for you. My best friend Ponyboy Curtis' parents died a few months ago, and I knew exactly how he felt. Sure, my own were alive, but the parent in them was dead before I was even born.
The worst part of all was knowing they didn't care whether I was safe or on the streets, home or wandering around, alive or dead.
The worst part of all was knowing I would never have a home to go to, because for my entire life the only home I knew was one that was dysfunctional.
Okay. Reviews, please! Tell me what you thought, I've never written Johnny's POV before, so I need suggestions for improvement…D