The Mental Patience

The First Day

I woke up just like any other day. I had been having nightmares lately and last night's was one of the worst. It was the same from when my mother had died last year. I could still hear her screams of pain in the background. Then, as she was saying goodbye to me, the tears running down her face, trying to stay strong for me, she had told me, "Never let go." How hypocritical of her! Why had she done that? What right did she have to tell me to never let go and then let go.
I was lost. It was the same nightmare, and it was a recurring one for most nights. It would only haunt me. My father blamed me for her death. He had said if I were a better son, then maybe, just maybe she would still be here. I can't help but get the feeling that maybe that was true, and that I deserved those beatings every night.
Last night he was worse though. He had come home drunk, as he usually did. Last night though, I was ready. I knew what was going to happen, and I had prepared for it.
He came bellowing through the door in a boisterous manner. The door swung open harshly and slammed against the wall, leaving a mark where the doorknob made contact. When the door struck the wall, I flinched at the foreshadow of what was echoing, beckoning to me. My eyes sealed themselves shut, tears fighting their way through the trapping. My heart was beating so loudly I could hear it in my ears.
"Boy!" my father had cried out, barely audible through his drunken slur, "Come out from where you're hiding! I need to teach you some manners."
Manners. I was sitting, solemn, in this darkened closet like a good kid. I wasn't being loud, I wasn't disrupting anything. I was showing my dad the good manners I had.
Suddenly, I was blinded from the faint whisper of a light that came through a cracked door. I could see the sinister lips of his curl into a sardonic smile. "There you are, boy." He let out a drunken hearty laugh as he flung the door the rest of the way, open. "Get out here for your lesson, boy."
I didn't fight him. There was no point in fighting him this time. He was twice as angry as the other nights, and I had lost all of my strength.
He grabbed me by my collar and threw me out into the floor, and I lay there, sprawled on the blood stained carpet. I felt nothing at this point. My pain was subsided by the wanting I had just to be able to see my mother again. He picked me up again, half clumsily from the liquor, and he raised his hand. I shut my eyes waiting for the inevitable blow. I didn't hear a thing. Didn't feel a thing. All there was, was a smack across my already swollen cheek. My head was thrown to the side from the force of the blow as my eye already began to swell.
One last tear escaped my eye as it swelled to a point that it could not be opened again. It was not out of pain, however. It was from remorse. That fading black memory of what once had been, before he was like this.
I took sever more hits, each one more fierce than the last. Finally, he dropped me to the ground. I just laid there, motionless hoping it was done. He raised his hand one more time, this one was to be fatal. My body could not handle anymore and I was about to let go. The very thing my mother did. Instead, he dropped his hand again and fell to his knees in tears. It was the one year anniversary of her passing, and my father was on his knees, uncontrollably sobbing.
I did nothing. He had beaten all the pain out of me, and all I wanted to do was to let go and die. Something in me told me not to, though. Instead, I got up, tears stained to my face and blood seeping from my facial wounds. I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. I walked back out to my father and handed him the glass. He took a sip of it, patted me on the back as if nothing had happened, walked to his room, and slammed the door.
I stood there for a second. Finally, I walked over to couch and laid down on it. Without warning, my face became increasingly warm and tears began flowing from my eyes. I couldn't control it; everything that had happened was just releasing itself all at once. I hated him. I hated my life. I wanted to die. Just let go and die. Nothing could make me change my mind. I had decided that tomorrow, I was going to end it. That knife, it's smooth shining metallic blade, was calling out to me as an escape from it all. It was an escape from the pain, the fear, my longing for my mother, and it was an escape from him. That was the most blesse'd inspiration I could ask for at this point. And anything that could get in my way from that happiness of letting go would surely not triumph. Now I see why my mother did it, let go. It was an escape from this horrible life. And I was going to see her again at last tomorrow night.