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  • Annamaria Nemeth

Facing the dragon.

My hatred for my father grew stronger as time went by. He had to be stopped. I truly wished him dead. To keep my sanity I continued to stay away from home as much as possible.I would get my chores done and leave the house.

To keep some money in my pockets, I started working at an agricultural farm owned by the government that was not far from my house. I was picking berries, apples, pears, you name it, and got paid by the amount picked. They paid cash which worked well for me. I enjoyed the city life and had the money to go to cafes and book stores.

As long as I stayed away from home I was ok. The sad part is that I was only about ten years old and still a child. But my soul felt old and tired. I did play with other kids and enjoyed any challenge I faced. If we climbed trees , I had to climb the tallest one. If we played any sort of sport, I had to win. I became very competitive in everything I did. I was trying to prove something to someone—perhaps myself. I started controlling everything I could around me.

One of the hardest parts was that my sister left home shortly after the party incident. She was only sixteen. I had lost my best friend... This increased my hatred towards my father even more. My parents tried to bring her back home, but the local police knew the abuse we were experiencing at home. So finally they were willing to help my sister by telling her she didn’t have to go home. They would not force her to do so.

My father ended up having a heart attack shortly after my sister left home. He was prescribed heart medication and needed to take nitroglycerin. Of course, this did not stop his anger or rage. One day he needed cash to go gambling. My mom had just paid the bills so there wasn’t much cash in the house. This enraged him so he commanded me to go get her from the factory. I said no!!! I will not go get her!!! He started yelling at me and coming at me.

My mom had a wooden stick about an inch thick and four feet long which she used to stir the laundry while doing the starching (old-fashioned, I know). He loved using that to hit us. For some reason our heads were his favorite targeting spot. He hit me, again, and again....I yelled at him as loud as my voice allowed me to and stood right in his face, making it very clear that I would not go to get my mom!!!

I looked right at my father and he started holding his chest. He asked me to go get his heart pills. (My mom had showed me where they were in case an emergency like this came up.) I again looked at my father and told him I didn’t know where they were. He started frantically looking for them himself. I watched him get worse. He fell to the floor. His color did not look good.

My mind processed this quickly: he can die; I want him dead. I stood there cold as ice and looked him in the eye. I whispered, “How does it feel to feel helpless?” I stood up, went to the cabinet where the pills were, and I threw them at him. Could I actually live with the thought that I had killed my father?

My mom came home from work and nothing was mentioned about the incident. He didn't say anything to her and never mentioned the money he needed for gambling. He knew that I was not going to stand for this behavior much longer. I never mentioned any of this to my mom or anyone else.

Many things changed after that. No matter what happened, I no longer showed him fear. I fought back any way I could. I had feelings inside that scared me. Where did this strength come from? But mostly, where did these scary thoughts come from? Could I have actually killed my own father?

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