God’s Dead

01
I was never ‘religious’.
I didn’t take part of church events
or put my physical trust in anyone
other than myself. Father hated that.
he would frequently sit me down at
the kitchen table and try to get me to
listen to whatever he thought would
help me.
Listen to this prayer. He said, while reciting
St. Francis’ prayer. I looked away in hopes he
would just give up already. And then I saw it
from the corner of my eye. Him looking up at
me with disgust, anger and hate.
Heaving his 240-pound body up from the chair,
he manhandled my hair like the leash on a dog.
I could feel every strand of hair pull against
my scalp, whilst I’m unable to stop it.
Throwing me to the ground, he removes his
white and blue stained polo shirt to reveal his
wife-beater underneath.
You will start acting like a son. He orders. Removing
his belt off, I let the words sink into me. Even while
the belt slapped against my back, the words he spoke
struck me harder and left more scars underneath.
In the heat of it all, He swapped beating for choking.
I could feel the dirt from under his fingernails seep
into the sweat and tears coating my face and neck.
The bloodlust in his eyes sent adrenaline through
my veins, giving me the ability to do something that
I hadn’t done for 17 years.
Fight back.
For once, my 120-body thrusted Him off my body.
Allowing me to run away.
And never look back.