Young Bobby Drabble II
Title: Young Bobby Drabble II
Author: Capricorn86
Characters: Bobby, Bobby`s father
Summary: Bobby looks back on a certain childhood memory
Warning: Contains spanking and descriptions of abuse
Author`s Note: Certain parts in this may come off as a little disturbing. Please read the warning.
My dad was a drunk. A nasty, mean one at that. He used to slap my mother around and he often took his belt to me for some minor offence. You had to watch your step around him. He could change just like that. Any second, something you did or said could set him off. He could jump out of his chair and give me a lickin for just looking at him the wrong way. And my mother would alternate between begging him to stop and telling me it was my own fault for provoking him in the first place. Like I deserved all he handed out.
Being alone with him was the worst. On Saturdays, for example. My mother would go out to do her weekly grocery shopping, and I`d be left in the house. With him.
The days and the beatings sorta blend together in my mind, but certain occasions I remember better than others. Such as one Saturday I was alone with my father. Now, memories are funny things. Bits and pieces are clear as day in my head, but certain things I just can`t seem to remember. I don`t recall exactly how the large vase ended up on the floor, but somehow I`d managed to knock it over. Having a drunken bastard for a dad makes you clumsy and nervous, I guess.
The vase didn`t break, but that didn`t stop my father from coming running into the living room, finding me on my hands and knees on the floor, checking the vase for any damage.
“What the hell did you do, boy?” he roared at me. My father was a tall man, at least he seemed that way to me back then. I was only a small squirt of a kid in comparison. I remember looking up at him from my position on the floor, cowering like a whipped dog at the feet of his master.
I had a small hope that he wouldn`t beat me for knocking the vase over. In all fairness, it didn`t break! I pointed this true fact out to my father.
“It aint broken, Dad! Look!”
Yeah, he looked alright. He looked at the vase on the floor, then he looked at me. The slap he delivered to my face sent me reeling. It stung like a bitch and made my ears ring. Knew his stuff, my father did. Always used an open palm when going for the face. It doesn`t leave marks.
Now, I aint complainin. I might have had it bad, but plenty of kids had it worse. My father wasn`t the only drunk in South Dakota back then. Every week at school some kid would be squirming on his chair, and not because he was bored. I wasn`t special.
“You break everything you touch!” Dad yelled at me, towering above me as I was lying on the floor, tears beginning to stream down my face. I hated crying in front of him because it made me feel weak, and I knew it only fed into his anger.
I hated his large, rough, hard hands and his wicked belt. Even as a little kid, I sometimes played with the thought of grabbing an axe and chopping the bastards hands clean off. That way he wouldn`t be able to hurt me or my mother anymore.
I mumbled an apology, although I knew all the words in the world couldn`t save me. “I`m sorry...” I sniffed, feeling the intense sting in my soft cheek, rubbing at it with a trembling hand.
“I`ll give you a reason to be sorry!” Dad roared. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, it was Jack Daniels tonight.
He grabbed my arm and hauled me clean off the floor, making me stand on my feet. I knew what was coming now. Sure enough, Dad did not disappoint. He unbuckled his belt and doubled it over in his hand. More tears dripped down my cheeks. It hurt when they rolled down the area where his hand had connected with my face.
Even today, I get angry thinking about what happened that day. Sure, a father has a right to punish his youngster if he breaks something. But I didn`t. The vase fell to the floor, but it didn`t get a scratch. But that didn`t stop my dad from taking his belt to me. Again. Just another Saturday night at the Singer`s house.
When he was done blistering my butt and let me go, he yelled at me again, this time for crying. His belt hadn`t exactly halted my tears.
“Look at you, crying like a baby. Can`t even take your punishment like a man.”
Well, no. I couldn`t. Not just because my dad didn`t hold back, but because I was a kid! A small, defenseless kid who broke into a cold sweat at the sound of his father’s footsteps.
“Get out of here,” Dad ordered, and I happily obeyed.
I ran out of the house, and Dad... Well, I reckon he went back to his bottle. He loved the drink more than he ever loved my mother or me.
Author: Capricorn86
Characters: Bobby, Bobby`s father
Summary: Bobby looks back on a certain childhood memory
Warning: Contains spanking and descriptions of abuse
Author`s Note: Certain parts in this may come off as a little disturbing. Please read the warning.
My dad was a drunk. A nasty, mean one at that. He used to slap my mother around and he often took his belt to me for some minor offence. You had to watch your step around him. He could change just like that. Any second, something you did or said could set him off. He could jump out of his chair and give me a lickin for just looking at him the wrong way. And my mother would alternate between begging him to stop and telling me it was my own fault for provoking him in the first place. Like I deserved all he handed out.
Being alone with him was the worst. On Saturdays, for example. My mother would go out to do her weekly grocery shopping, and I`d be left in the house. With him.
The days and the beatings sorta blend together in my mind, but certain occasions I remember better than others. Such as one Saturday I was alone with my father. Now, memories are funny things. Bits and pieces are clear as day in my head, but certain things I just can`t seem to remember. I don`t recall exactly how the large vase ended up on the floor, but somehow I`d managed to knock it over. Having a drunken bastard for a dad makes you clumsy and nervous, I guess.
The vase didn`t break, but that didn`t stop my father from coming running into the living room, finding me on my hands and knees on the floor, checking the vase for any damage.
“What the hell did you do, boy?” he roared at me. My father was a tall man, at least he seemed that way to me back then. I was only a small squirt of a kid in comparison. I remember looking up at him from my position on the floor, cowering like a whipped dog at the feet of his master.
I had a small hope that he wouldn`t beat me for knocking the vase over. In all fairness, it didn`t break! I pointed this true fact out to my father.
“It aint broken, Dad! Look!”
Yeah, he looked alright. He looked at the vase on the floor, then he looked at me. The slap he delivered to my face sent me reeling. It stung like a bitch and made my ears ring. Knew his stuff, my father did. Always used an open palm when going for the face. It doesn`t leave marks.
Now, I aint complainin. I might have had it bad, but plenty of kids had it worse. My father wasn`t the only drunk in South Dakota back then. Every week at school some kid would be squirming on his chair, and not because he was bored. I wasn`t special.
“You break everything you touch!” Dad yelled at me, towering above me as I was lying on the floor, tears beginning to stream down my face. I hated crying in front of him because it made me feel weak, and I knew it only fed into his anger.
I hated his large, rough, hard hands and his wicked belt. Even as a little kid, I sometimes played with the thought of grabbing an axe and chopping the bastards hands clean off. That way he wouldn`t be able to hurt me or my mother anymore.
I mumbled an apology, although I knew all the words in the world couldn`t save me. “I`m sorry...” I sniffed, feeling the intense sting in my soft cheek, rubbing at it with a trembling hand.
“I`ll give you a reason to be sorry!” Dad roared. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, it was Jack Daniels tonight.
He grabbed my arm and hauled me clean off the floor, making me stand on my feet. I knew what was coming now. Sure enough, Dad did not disappoint. He unbuckled his belt and doubled it over in his hand. More tears dripped down my cheeks. It hurt when they rolled down the area where his hand had connected with my face.
Even today, I get angry thinking about what happened that day. Sure, a father has a right to punish his youngster if he breaks something. But I didn`t. The vase fell to the floor, but it didn`t get a scratch. But that didn`t stop my dad from taking his belt to me. Again. Just another Saturday night at the Singer`s house.
When he was done blistering my butt and let me go, he yelled at me again, this time for crying. His belt hadn`t exactly halted my tears.
“Look at you, crying like a baby. Can`t even take your punishment like a man.”
Well, no. I couldn`t. Not just because my dad didn`t hold back, but because I was a kid! A small, defenseless kid who broke into a cold sweat at the sound of his father’s footsteps.
“Get out of here,” Dad ordered, and I happily obeyed.
I ran out of the house, and Dad... Well, I reckon he went back to his bottle. He loved the drink more than he ever loved my mother or me.