I hate my father. He was a cunt and a coward. He used to beat my mum. For nothing. Dinner wasn’t ready on time. He had a shit day at work. He lost on the horses. One of his dodgy good-for-nothing mates swindled him. He didn’t want to get off his arse to put the kettle on and she refused to do it for him.
When I was a kid I used to cower in my bed, cover my ears and I could still hear her screaming. Eventually her screams would turn to sobs and I would hear my father come up the stairs. My heart stopped when his footsteps did. I could see his shoes through the crack under my door, and I would squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath.
The door would creak open. Those awful seconds when I knew he was watching me felt like a lifetime. I prayed and pleaded with God that he wouldn’t come in my room and hurt me. And maybe God was on my side because he would finally shut the door.
I hated myself for being a coward, for hiding in my room while he beat my mum black and blue. When I was sixteen, finally a man, I swore to her, the next time he hit her, he would pay.
Terrified screams jolted me awake, and I ran downstairs. Mum was curled up on the floor. His boot lashed out, struck her in face. Blood sprayed everywhere. I remember the rage, like fire, I remember my only thought: I will kill you. I smacked him one right in the face. His bottom lip burst like a ripe tomato. He staggered back and stared at me, like he couldn’t believe it. I felt invincible. Then his fist was coming right at me, larger than a planet, and then it went dark.
I ran away from home. Got a job. Got a girl. My Amy. And soon we found out we were having a baby. I said to myself I’m gonna do this right. My kid is going to look up to me, say I was a good role model, say they’re proud that I’m their dad. That’s how it’s gonna be.
My father only did one good thing in his life, and that was to off himself. But I still couldn’t get away from him. I would wake to him choking me, before Amy woke me for real. I heard his voice in my head whenever Amy and I fought. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’re just like me. My son.
We were having a bad argument, a proper screaming match. Amy said you’re just like your father and I hit her. It was a fucking betrayal, to say that. She knew how much I hate my father. She knew that would hurt me.
Her eyes went wide, her mouth fell open, she clutched her stomach and staggered back, fell to the floor. Then the blood started to run down her legs, thick as soup. It spread across the carpet. There was so much of it. She started to wail, and then I couldn’t see her, only my mother. Her bloody, bruised face. Her pleading eyes. I tried to stem the blood with my hands. It seeped through my fingers, poured down my arms. No, no, no. What have I done?
I ran to the toilet to vomit. I looked up and my father’s face was smirking at me in the mirror. I punched the mirror so hard it shattered, then I rushed Amy to hospital.
We lost the baby. But a part of me already knew. She broke down in to sobs. I didn’t. I felt too bad to even cry. There was something darker in me. I could feel it twisting in my stomach, turning my heart to stone. Our baby was dead. My fault. I’m just like my father, after all.
The doctor asked what happened. She lied, said she didn’t know. But the doctor looked at me, and he knew, I could tell. He said she needed to stay in hospital and I had best go home. She needed her rest. I didn’t argue. He was trying to get rid of me.
I knew there’d be a knock on the door. The police. They’ll find out I killed our baby. I’m a murderer. There’ll be a trial. I’ll be in the news. My mother will see that I am my father’s son.
I ran a bath, waited until the water was nice and hot. I picked up a razor and imagined the blade slicing through my skin. Will it hurt? Will it hurt as much as living with the pain of knowing I killed my own child? No. I want it to be over. Don’t be a coward now.
I faltered as the blade pierced my skin. A little sting, a trickle of blood, a spot of pink on the water. Is this how I really want to be found, bled out in a bathtub? I suppose it’s fitting. It’s how my little boy, or little girl, died, drowning in their own blood.
My father lied up until the day he died, even in his suicide note. Nobody knows the truth, apart from mum and me. His face is in front of me now, grinning. He thinks he’s won. But I can do the thing he never did. The thing he was too scared to do. The only thing left that sets us apart. To fucking own up to what I did.
I’m a cunt, a pathetic excuse for a human being, a coward, a dog who needs to be put down. I’m a murderer. But you know what? I am not my father’s son.
Leave a Reply.
Georgie Bull is a freelance writer and published author living in Worcester, England.
Author: Georgie Bull
1. You Can Go Home Again
2. A Beautiful Dream
5. Let Me Tell You A Story
6. The Haunting Of Verno House
7. The C Word
8. A Ghost Story
9. Father's Son
10. Time (poem)
11. Poems - Unheard and Silent Musician
12. The Ultimate Dystopia - part one
13. The Ultimate Dystopia - part two
1. The Desert - Peregrin Jones
2. The Being Verse - Peregrin Jones
3. Who Will Feel The Rain Now? - Leena Batchelor
The Blue Hour by Dreena Collins
Introducing Writing Wednesdays - Become A Guest Author!
Fiction Fridays gets 50-100 unique views per day and is gaining popularity at a rapid rate.
Become a guest author and get your fiction seen and read.
Submit your poems, short stories (up to 1500 words), or monologues for consideration. New and established writers welcome!
Send your fiction and a paragraph about the author to email@example.com
All submissions will be carefully read and authors will be notified on successful application. Copyright remains with the author and each guest post will include an 'about the author' section with a photo (optional) and links to your publications and website if applicable *
* Guest posts will be published on Wednesdays - one per week. Successful submissions may be scheduled for a future publication date. Author will be notified of the date.
I look forward to reading your submissions!