Dirty Keys
April Thompson
Part Two
April Thompson
Part Two
For
the next couple weeks, I deliberately came home early and everyday he
taught me something new about the piano. As the weeks went by I got
better and better. The cruel comments that he would make during our
little lessons somehow turned to words of encouragement, or at least that's what they sounded like to me. His once cruel demeanor was actually becoming sweet and kind as we sat at the keys. The first
full song he taught me how to play was No Particular Place to Go by
Chuck Berry. It was my dad's favorite. He would make me play that
song over and over again until my fingers and wrist would cramp up so
bad I felt like crying. I hated how determined he was to make me a perfect piano player, but it was kind of worth it. It felt like a science project sitting with him each day. I could only describe it as a Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde like experience. When he was playing
the piano or teaching me how to play he seemed like two different
people. There were times when he was an absolute gentlemen and then
there were times when he was cold and spiteful.
Weeks, months, and years went by and I just kept getting better and better. My father actually seemed like he enjoyed teaching me. But no matter how much I hoped and dreamed of this perfect daddy, it never happened. He stayed a drunk, cold, hateful human being. By the time I was seventeen my sister couldn't take helping our mom anymore and she left. She said it was to painful to watch her mother and father fight as if they were boxers and the yelling and screaming would give her migraine's. My little brother was just fine with everything. He was kind of the favorite. He was the son my father always wanted and he was just as short tempered as dad. For me, I didn't very long. The last time I ever talked with or saw my father was in the winter.
It was Christmas and my mom had decided to have this big Christmas party for all of her and my dad's friends. Of course me and my little brother weren't invited. So I decided to go off with my friends and we had our own little party. Growing up, I would constantly sneak out and come and go as I pleased. My parents either didn't know about it or they just didn't care. I never cared to ask them if it was one or the other. Usually I'd sneak out after they went to bed or to work and I'd tip toe back in before they noticed anything was different. Not that they would notice the "forgotten child." That's what my sister used to call me.
This night, the night of the Christmas party, I was drunk. I climb back into my room through the window, put on my sleep clothes, and laid in bed. The party was still going on down stairs. I could hear that cheesy Christmas music that you hear in grocery stores and super centers, vibrating through the walls of our old country home. I could also hear my mother's laughter and my father and his friends telling dirty jokes and challenging one another to drunken wrestling matches. Even with all of the music and talking, I started to doze off. Sleeping during loud, obnoxious sounds was a norm at my house, for obvious reasons.
Through the commotion, a drunken voice yelled out my name from downstairs. At first I thought I was dreaming so I ignored it and rested my swirling head back down on my pillow. No more then five minutes later, my bedroom door brust open and the light from downstairs broke through the darkness in my room. I jumped up and tried to shield my sensitive eyes, but the light was already painfully blinding me.
"Just let the girl sleep!" my mom yelled up the stairs.
"She ain't sleep! She's sitting straight up!" my dad snapped back as he staggered into my room.
He stood at the foot of my bed swaying back forth as if he were on a boat. A thick stench of alcohol radiated from his body.
"Well? Come on!" he ordered as if I knew what he was talking about.
I just stared at him. I had no idea what he wanted.
"You coming or not?" he asked.
"Coming where?" I asked.
Just then, my father walked to the side of my bed and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of bed. He pulled me so hard I thought he might yanked my arm completely off. I thought about fighting him and running back to my room and locking the door, but that would have just made things much worse. Be sides, there were people, or witnesses, downstairs. Surely he wasn't going to beat me in front of them. Or maybe he was. Maybe he knew I hadn't been home all night. Was he really going to punish me in front of everyone?
I couldn't help but ask myself a million questions as we made our way down the stairs. The party goers stared up at me. I felt as if I were walking on to the field for the firing squad. Whatever my dad was forcefully dragging me to was bad. I could see it written on everyone's face.
(Part 3 Coming soon)
Weeks, months, and years went by and I just kept getting better and better. My father actually seemed like he enjoyed teaching me. But no matter how much I hoped and dreamed of this perfect daddy, it never happened. He stayed a drunk, cold, hateful human being. By the time I was seventeen my sister couldn't take helping our mom anymore and she left. She said it was to painful to watch her mother and father fight as if they were boxers and the yelling and screaming would give her migraine's. My little brother was just fine with everything. He was kind of the favorite. He was the son my father always wanted and he was just as short tempered as dad. For me, I didn't very long. The last time I ever talked with or saw my father was in the winter.
It was Christmas and my mom had decided to have this big Christmas party for all of her and my dad's friends. Of course me and my little brother weren't invited. So I decided to go off with my friends and we had our own little party. Growing up, I would constantly sneak out and come and go as I pleased. My parents either didn't know about it or they just didn't care. I never cared to ask them if it was one or the other. Usually I'd sneak out after they went to bed or to work and I'd tip toe back in before they noticed anything was different. Not that they would notice the "forgotten child." That's what my sister used to call me.
This night, the night of the Christmas party, I was drunk. I climb back into my room through the window, put on my sleep clothes, and laid in bed. The party was still going on down stairs. I could hear that cheesy Christmas music that you hear in grocery stores and super centers, vibrating through the walls of our old country home. I could also hear my mother's laughter and my father and his friends telling dirty jokes and challenging one another to drunken wrestling matches. Even with all of the music and talking, I started to doze off. Sleeping during loud, obnoxious sounds was a norm at my house, for obvious reasons.
Through the commotion, a drunken voice yelled out my name from downstairs. At first I thought I was dreaming so I ignored it and rested my swirling head back down on my pillow. No more then five minutes later, my bedroom door brust open and the light from downstairs broke through the darkness in my room. I jumped up and tried to shield my sensitive eyes, but the light was already painfully blinding me.
"Just let the girl sleep!" my mom yelled up the stairs.
"She ain't sleep! She's sitting straight up!" my dad snapped back as he staggered into my room.
He stood at the foot of my bed swaying back forth as if he were on a boat. A thick stench of alcohol radiated from his body.
"Well? Come on!" he ordered as if I knew what he was talking about.
I just stared at him. I had no idea what he wanted.
"You coming or not?" he asked.
"Coming where?" I asked.
Just then, my father walked to the side of my bed and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of bed. He pulled me so hard I thought he might yanked my arm completely off. I thought about fighting him and running back to my room and locking the door, but that would have just made things much worse. Be sides, there were people, or witnesses, downstairs. Surely he wasn't going to beat me in front of them. Or maybe he was. Maybe he knew I hadn't been home all night. Was he really going to punish me in front of everyone?
I couldn't help but ask myself a million questions as we made our way down the stairs. The party goers stared up at me. I felt as if I were walking on to the field for the firing squad. Whatever my dad was forcefully dragging me to was bad. I could see it written on everyone's face.
(Part 3 Coming soon)
Copyright © 2012 by April Thompson
All
rights reserved. No part of this writing may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Author.
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