Chapter 2: Living with a Monster

My father is a total drunk.

He’s the kind of man who always smells like a half-finished bottle of cheap whiskey, the kind who keeps the TV blaring at three a.m. so the neighbors can hear his laughter, the kind who everyone in the neighborhood avoids eye contact with.

Every night, he staggers home from that run-down bar on Main Street, reeking of whiskey.

The bartender there—Tommy—once offered me a root beer and a wink, as if that could make up for watching my dad stumble out, cussing at the moon. The whole block knows the routine: my dad comes home, a hurricane in boots, and nothing good follows.

As soon as he walks in, if anything sets him off, he takes it out on me and my mom.

Sometimes, it’s the way I look at him. Sometimes, it’s just the air in the room. Our house was never quiet for long; it was like we were all living in a landmine field, tiptoeing, never knowing when the next explosion would go off.

I can’t remember how many nights our house echoed with my mom’s screams and my dad’s animal-like yelling.

Sometimes I’d lie in bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, counting the seconds between the shouts and the thuds, praying it’d all be over by morning. But it never was.

The neighbors don’t want to get involved. They say it’s a family matter, after all.

They keep their blinds drawn and TVs louder when my dad’s voice carries through the night. You could almost feel their relief when the commotion wasn’t coming from their own house.

I’ve begged them for help a few times, but after that, they wouldn’t even open their doors to me.

The last time, Mrs. Mendez from next door peered through her peephole and pretended not to hear me pounding. Their porch light flicked off, and I was left shivering in the dark, clutching my scraped hands.

Once, a middle-aged guy told me through the door to call the cops.

That was Mr. Riley from across the street. His voice was muffled but flat—like he’d already made up his mind. No way was he getting involved with the Hargrove mess.

I ran home, grabbed my dad’s phone—he’d dropped it when he threw a punch—and dialed 911, my hands shaking.

The operator’s calm voice sounded a world away as I hid behind the torn living room curtain, phone pressed to my chest, hoping the police would get there before my dad noticed what I was doing.

The police took my dad away, but a few days later, he was released and came right back. The moment he walked in, he kicked me in the stomach.

He slammed the door so hard the frame rattled, then came for me before I could even run. My breath whooshed out as I hit the faded linoleum, my whole body aching. Mom screamed, but nobody came. Not this time, not any time.

That’s when I realized—my dad isn’t afraid of anything. No one can control him anymore.

The law barely dented him. His anger was bigger than any courtroom, and by then, he knew it. I was just a punching bag, and Mom was a ghost of the woman she used to be.

Whenever my mom got beaten, as soon as my dad stormed off to the bedroom, I’d rush to her side to patch her up.

I’d grab the old first aid kit under the sink—half empty, battered, but it was all we had. Some nights, I’d use the ice tray from the freezer, holding cubes in a rag against her bruises, wishing I was older, stronger, anything but this useless kid.

I hated myself for being too small, too weak to protect her.

I’d clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms, wishing I could just snap and fight back, make it stop. But I never could. Not yet.

I heard my dad used to be decent—good-looking and full of promise—but after his business went under, his temper turned nasty.

Once, Mom showed me an old photo—Dad in a pressed suit, hair slicked back, grinning at some office party. But that man was gone. All that was left was this angry, bitter shell.

I don’t really get it.

Why do my mom and I have to suffer for his failures?

The unfairness of it gnawed at me, like a splinter I couldn’t pull out. It didn’t matter that I’d done nothing wrong. In his mind, someone had to pay.

Is it just because we’re the easiest targets?

Even as a kid, I knew: sometimes bad things just happen, and nobody’s coming to save you.