i
The end of another school day. We sit around the kitchen table with our Mother, the heart of our home. Our conversation is giddy with laughter and freedom, at least for another two hours, until 'He' gets home. We have our dinner early so we can escape to our room afterwards, but for now we enjoy the cool breeze wafting in from the back door and the sweet taste of cold drink as it slides down parched throats. Being young and active is such thirsty work. We go out to play as the clock ticks by, inexorably inching towards hell, oblivious to the fear that drips steadily into our veins. We freeze at the sound of a car horn. He's home. We look at each other, knowing shutters have now closed on today's freedom. We hear the gates open, watching as he drives through, each heart beating ever faster with fear.
He enters the now silent house, devoid of words which might draw attention to their owners, followed closely by the darkness that surrounds him. The jangle of his keys echoes the nervous tension inside us. It is the death knell of peace. He unlocks the door to his kingdom. It is but a cupboard, not majestic at all, its confined space crammed to the Gods he so readily worships. Money, food and his liquid poison of choice. We hear the spiralled rasp of a screw cap as it parts company from a bottle, followed by the sound of liquid as it swirls round meeting the shape of a glass, a golden colour with the distinctive odour of death.
As the sun sets, the dying day mingles with a black hole of fear. Will this night be like the others? Will we waken to the sound of words spewed from snarled lips, to sounds of fists meeting flesh? Will we be able to escape our 'home', slip into the darkness? Will we have to wait until his alcohol fuelled body lies prone, unable to cause harm this night? He's topped up with rage, spewing hate from distorted lips. Outside in the dark, we are 'safe' from his fists, but our Mother isn't that lucky.
ii
Years later, five children are now adults, trying to make their way in a world full of possibilities, scarred by fear. We come home from work, excited because it's the weekend. We fall asleep happy, knowing we can lay in tomorrow. We are woken at 6am to the sound of our bedroom door being opened, with a heavy hand. He stands there, laughing derisively at us, calling us lazy for sleeping in. 'Wake up and do something!', he says. We, no longer in the peaceful arms of sleep, rise as requested to yet another miserable day. Our Mother whispers to us, 'He started drinking early today.' We don't reply, there is no point.
We slip into books, devouring words as we move steadily through each page, filling ourselves with the colourful lives of the characters. They calm us, take us away from the hell of our own existence. We come back to reality with a jolt. He's shouting at our Mother, she is shouting back. We silently pray for her to stop speaking, willing her to walk away. The shouting escalates. My Mother and my Sister go over to our next-door neighbour. I am alone with him, but I am in my bedroom, I will be OK. I hear him muttering to himself, vomiting words into the air as I sit frozen waiting for it to pass.
Words become twisted, enraged with feeling. I hear the crash of something hitting the wall. I stiffen and wait for what will follow. He goes berserk, turning our kitchen inside out. Something snaps inside me, shattering forever, the wall of silence I had so carefully built around me. I run to the kitchen, the air is saturated in brandy as he hurls something else against the wall. He stops for a split second when he sees me, followed by swearing and verbal abuse. Silent no more, I scream at him. 'Enough! enough!' I watch his eyes widen in surprise, his mouth open, in slow motion, ready to sear me with his rancid breath. I run out of the front door screaming. I reach the patio, still screaming.
[There's a stranger there, not far where I stand. She looks like me, but I am not on the patio. I watch as this young woman screams over and over again, for what seems like an eternity. People come rushing out of houses, trying to comfort her, but she carries on screaming. I watch her get taken back inside the house. She is crying hysterically.]
Tears roll down my cheeks as I become her again. That silent baby, that grew into a silent adult. She is silent no more, bearing scars that will never heal.
iii
Long ago, our Father planted the seeds of alcohol, lovingly nurturing them until they bore fruit, worshipping at their altar. I have learnt that silence is safe, laughter is golden and any sudden noise will make me scream in fear. I have also learnt forgiveness for the frailty of the human mind. I love my family. I love my Father, I have forgiven him, but I can't forget. He is 86 year old, misshapen by arthritis and wracked in pain. I would do anything to take his pain away.
There is one word that lingers in my mind. 'Sorry.' I have heard it countless times, too many to mention. Each and every time I hear it, it loses its depth of meaning. It hovers lifeless somewhere between love and aberration, as hollow as a never ending scream.
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Been there, done that. My dad was an alcoholic, too. So was the man I lived with for 14 years. I am so damnably weary of the smell of booze. Fortunately, Danny doesn't drink. I never did, much; I was tired of its effects before I even got started. Why the crap isn't outlawed, I'll never know. It's ruined more lives than any other single substance imaginable. A deeply moving piece, Sweetie. I hear ya. 
