EXCERPT FROM MY UP AND COMING NOVEL 'THE RAGE ROOM'
I was four years old the first time I remember my dad beating the shit out of me.
My mum had gone out. I can't remember where. And I was crying. I can't remember why. Probably because I wanted to go with her.
If there was one thing that enraged my dad and made him lose control; it was a child's bawling. What possesses an otherwise kind and loving father, a full grown man, to pick up his own, delicate, innocent, four-year-old flesh and blood son, throw him on the floor, and kick him in the ribs four times?
What makes him bypass all the other stages of diplomacy (put on the kid's favourite cartoon, give him some ice cream, take him for a walk somewhere), and skip straight to treating him like a football he had accidently tripped on and pissed him off?
Who knows.
My mum wasn't 'bad' per se. She was just weak and useless. She did her best. But her best just wasn't very good. She was the gentle, timid Yin to my dad's rough and aggressive Yang.
I was 12 years old the first time I plucked up the courage to retaliate.
It disturbs me now, as an adult, when I think back and recall how cool, calm, and clinical I was at that tender age. How I just sat at the dinner table, and watched, unblinking and unflinching, as my dad grabbed a fistful of my mum's sleek, pretty, chestnut-coloured hair. As he slammed her face into the hot lentil soup she had cooked, and yelled, "CAN YOU TASTE THE SALT? CAN YOU TASTE THE SALT NOW, YOU DUMB BITCH? HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO EAT THIS SHIT!"
I watched, without batting an eyelid, as he released his hold, and my mum sat there, gasping, spluttering and sobbing in pain. The steaming soup all over her face, hair, and clothes.
I was still calm when I got out of bed later that night.
When I walked into the kitchen in my spiderman pyjamas. Turned on the cooker. Watched the pot of soup heat up on the hob until it was steaming.
I was calm as I stood by my parents' bed, in the dark. A small sliver of light from the hallway spilling over them, illuminating my mum's hair. Watching them sleep, with the boiling pot of soup in my hands.
He was lucky his head was so close to hers, otherwise he would have said goodbye to his face that night. His leg hung outside the duvet, off the edge of the bed; pale, muscular, and hairy; glowing in the dark.
I was calm right up until the moment I emptied the entire pot of poorly-salted, boiling hot lentil soup all over it.
My mum had gone out. I can't remember where. And I was crying. I can't remember why. Probably because I wanted to go with her.
If there was one thing that enraged my dad and made him lose control; it was a child's bawling. What possesses an otherwise kind and loving father, a full grown man, to pick up his own, delicate, innocent, four-year-old flesh and blood son, throw him on the floor, and kick him in the ribs four times?
What makes him bypass all the other stages of diplomacy (put on the kid's favourite cartoon, give him some ice cream, take him for a walk somewhere), and skip straight to treating him like a football he had accidently tripped on and pissed him off?
Who knows.
My mum wasn't 'bad' per se. She was just weak and useless. She did her best. But her best just wasn't very good. She was the gentle, timid Yin to my dad's rough and aggressive Yang.
I was 12 years old the first time I plucked up the courage to retaliate.
It disturbs me now, as an adult, when I think back and recall how cool, calm, and clinical I was at that tender age. How I just sat at the dinner table, and watched, unblinking and unflinching, as my dad grabbed a fistful of my mum's sleek, pretty, chestnut-coloured hair. As he slammed her face into the hot lentil soup she had cooked, and yelled, "CAN YOU TASTE THE SALT? CAN YOU TASTE THE SALT NOW, YOU DUMB BITCH? HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO EAT THIS SHIT!"
I watched, without batting an eyelid, as he released his hold, and my mum sat there, gasping, spluttering and sobbing in pain. The steaming soup all over her face, hair, and clothes.
I was still calm when I got out of bed later that night.
When I walked into the kitchen in my spiderman pyjamas. Turned on the cooker. Watched the pot of soup heat up on the hob until it was steaming.
I was calm as I stood by my parents' bed, in the dark. A small sliver of light from the hallway spilling over them, illuminating my mum's hair. Watching them sleep, with the boiling pot of soup in my hands.
He was lucky his head was so close to hers, otherwise he would have said goodbye to his face that night. His leg hung outside the duvet, off the edge of the bed; pale, muscular, and hairy; glowing in the dark.
I was calm right up until the moment I emptied the entire pot of poorly-salted, boiling hot lentil soup all over it.
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