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The thing about perception is that you can never see all the way around it. We thought we knew his capacity. To force obedience. To scare us into acquiescence. To crush us. Daddy barreled across the room. His Nikes bumped against our bare toes. His forehead pressed against ours. The enormity of him erased us. I inhaled sweat and bursts of rum and coke. Recoiling from his spittle on my lips lured him closer.
I dare you. Do something.
Cracks ruptured and steamed in that thin space as we breathed the same breath. A primeval creature clawed against the tension. It arched and hissed under my skin. Hackles raised, it longed to render Daddy to flesh and bone. But his presence, so heavy and thick, smothered the creature’s life. It was always easier, safer, to stare at the carpet instead.
Now, that’s what I thought. Punk.
We would never make it in the Corps, he ranted. There was no such thing as personal space. No censorship for the obscenities raining down on us. No qualms against the profane spark generated when a father pressed against the budding adolescent bodies of his daughters. If we didn’t like it, we could always try to beat his ass. I welcomed the challenge and lunged for his throat. Tore away at the sharp-edged words ready to cut me down. My hand bloodied, I blinked back to reality where I instead pulled inward. Made myself smaller.
Y’all think this shit’s funny?