The Aftermath Of Beating My Father

As they placed the handcuffs around my wrists, I looked down at my fathers crumpled body. I felt nothing. They dragged me away, out of the front door, and onto the street, where I squinted in the daylight, and neighbours gathered around to watch and listen in shock and excitement. I hadn’t killed him, although a part of me wished I had. He would have deserved it for what he put me through. My mother watched from the doorway; her tearless eyes downcast, her mouth fixed into a straight line. She had not tried to stop me. But then again, she had never tried to stop him. Hands grabbed my waist roughly, pulling me into a police car, and the door slammed shut inches from my face. I felt a gun being pressed into my side as a precaution; just in case I lost it again. I wasn’t going to lose it again; not with anyone else. No one else deserved it. Through the window, I saw paramedics push past my mother, rushing inside with the machinery that would save my father’s life. As the police car pulled away, I watched everything I’d even known fall away behind me. A single tear rolled down my mother’s cheek. I didn’t know if she’d make an appearance at my trial, but I hoped she wouldn’t; we both knew the sentence I was about to receive. I would never be coming home.