When my dad did get up at around two in the afternoon, he came downstairs in a terrible state. He was pale and he looked as though there was nothing going on upstairs, if you know what I mean. Right when he saw my face, he turned from a blank stare, to anger.
“Why haven’t you made me breakfast?”
“You were supposed to make me an omelet for breakfast. Why didn’t you? I wanted a frickin ham and cheese omelet!”
I tried to remain calm. This happened a lot. “Dad, you never asked me to make you anything.”
He began to yell and swear at me. Using many vile words, he told me how I couldn’t do anything right and I never listen.
“Dad, listen to me. You have a problem. Look at the bottle on the table. Did you get sick last night? How much did you drink? You have a problem, Dad. We need to get help!”
“The only person who needs help is you! I had one small drink! Yah, and I had the stomach flu! Big deal!”
“Dad, you need to listen to me. Look at yourself in the mirror. You look disgusting. You act disgusting. You never told me to make you breakfast.”
He then got a murderous look on his face and ran over to me. I cringed in fear. This was when he had always started to make me angry, when he continuously argues with me.
“What did you say to me?”
“You need help. You have a problem. You drink too much alcohol. You’re hurting yourself. You’re hurting me.”
Out of nowhere, I received a punch in the nose. I bent over in pain, appalled. Was that my dad that just hit me?
“How dare you accuse me of drinking too much alcohol, you worthless little brat!”
Blood drained out of my nose and I tried not to cry. His words stung me. I ran out of the kitchen and to my room.
Tears falling from my eyes, I spent five minutes holding a tissue to my nose and applying pressure. When the bloody nose stopped, I was exceedingly tired. I felt as though I could actually sleep.
It took me about thirty seconds to fall completely asleep.
I was in the kitchen, holding my nose in pain. The clown was standing over me, holding his dagger in the air.
“It’s me, you worthless brat. I’m the clown.” My father’s voice reverberated through my head.
My eyes widened in surprise. It’s my dad. He’s the clown.
He smiled an evil smile and lowered the dagger to my chest. Without knowing how I got one, I picked up my own knife and shoved it through the clown’s heart. Blood poured out of the wound. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again, this time in the neck. The blood was warm on my skin as it flowed. The clown’s cold, dark eyes were almost brown in color, as he drew his last breath. The thought didn’t faze me.
My eyes opened and I grasped that something was wrong.I’m in the kitchen, but…I looked at the dagger in my hand. It was full of blood. Then, I looked at the floor. It wasn’t the clown I was looking at.
It was my father. The cold, dead, body of my dad.
A spark of realization hit me. I just murdered my father. I thought he was the clown in my dream, but…
My eyes watered yet again, but for another reason. I looked at my father’s body again, and vomited my lunch. This was more than my stomach could handle. This was more than my heart could handle. This was more than I could handle at all.
Subconsciously, I stood up and walked down the hall. I grabbed my dad’s car keys off the hook and went to the garage. I climbed into his red truck and started the engine. I pulled out of driveway, still only half sure of what I was doing.
As I drove down the road towards the lake, I knew that I was doing the right thing. All that I knew I could do. I couldn’t live knowing what I’ve done.
I reached the road with the dead end. It was a cliff overlooking the lake. I stopped the car.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I said, and floored the gas.
I felt weightless as I drove off the cliff. There was the rush of falling and then blackness.
It was over.