Daddy Dearest

I’d never been much of a runner. But then again, I’ve never been much of anything in daddy’s eyes.
Tonight, as my feet pounded on the black top of the street, I surprised myself by the speed. Fight or flight, I believe they call it, had taken over. I had chosen the latter.
In all honesty, I suppose I deserved it. Never talk back to daddy. Hang your head when you are reprimanded. Don’t make eye contact.
A bruise was in the process of forming just under my chin around my neck, and the protruding lumps on my forehead were already crying for the soothing relief of ice or aspirin.
The fists had come again and again as mother stood and watched, as frozen as I was. As if this was a surprise. As if it had never occurred before. But we both know it had. And would again.
The stones from the road dug into my feet unforgivingly and the sticks from the field tried to push me to stop as well. But my mind pushed me forward.
The rest of the night was spent in the refuge of a tree watching the sun rise and formulating a plan.

View this story's 4 comments.