Painted Smile

If both your guardians are alcoholics, life is rather unpredictable.  Home was an eternal Hell.  Home Sweet Home ceased to exist.  There was always a thick cloud of tension and hostility hanging over your head.  You need not say a word as you could feel its very presence watching your every move.  The air cold, stale and harbored the smell of spoiled vodka.  There was no escaping the stench.  Will this Hell ever end?
I remember the moments, very few indeed, he was gentle and warm. It was everything I expected of a father: caring, sensitive, interested and understanding. There were the times, he was frat boy drunk, passed out on the couch resembling an incoherent blob or the nights he didn’t come home, I lay in bed, I wait and I pray for his safe return. And many times, engaged in another senseless fight with the wife, the ol’ drunk in the pantry. My father couldn’t hold water to that woman. She just didn’t give a damn. She even poked and provoked house plants. Foolishly, I intervene. I wanted peace and honestly, one night of undisturbed sleep. I wanted one day in which my mind and body wasn’t brutally assaulted.  I want a lifetime in which a child’s spirit and worth isn’t stolen.