(no subject)
At five years old you don't know fear. You can't know fear until you've heard the terror in your father's drunken voice and seen the rage in his bloodshot eyes. I curled up under the blankets and prayed he wouldn't find me nestled deep down in my haven. I put the pillow over my head, trying to ignore my mother's shrieking screams and the furniture thrusting against the walls. He was a monster, a beast, a nightmare. When the house became silent, I peeked my head from under the blankets. I saw his shadow in the low-lit hallway coming towards my bedroom. I quickly snuck back under the blankets; pressed my knees to my chest as I tightly wrapped my arms around them. I heard the front door swing open and I quickly glanced at the hallway. The shadows on the walls had disappeared. Hesitated, I quietly crawled towards the doorway and snuck my head around the door to see what was happening. The bright blue and red flashing lights coming from outside stung my eyes, but I didn't cry. The cops took my father away. When I woke up the next morning, his usual smiling face was sitting at the breakfast table.