Free Struggle (The Hibernia Strain) by Albert Peterson Page A

lights are still turned on in the landing outside my room. I dare not move out of my bed for fear of getting into trouble, but I really need to use the bathroom.
    I had gone to bed early without using it, as my father was in a foul temper and had begun one of his alcohol binges, and now I was bursting to go. The fear of peeing my bed sheets is enough to make me creep deftly from their warm embrace.
    I tiptoe on the cold wooden floor, slowl y and as gingerly as possible, making sure to avoid all the squeaky areas which I had memorised by heart.
    I open my bedroom door and peek out into the hallway. The upstairs and downstairs lights are both on. He must have forgotten to turn them off on his way to bed.
    I imp out into the hall, as silent as the night air that surrounds me and edge my way down the corridor towards the bathroom, which resides at the halls end, past my father’s bedroom. Some children are lucky enough that this night time excursion would be more like a game and not the serious sport I have to undergo.
    As I reach his room, I realise the door is wide open and the bed is empty. I ’m relieved slightly. He must have fallen asleep on the couch again.
    I make it to the toilet , and tinkle against the side of porcelain bowl to mute the noise of the water splashing. It’s not exactly pristine white, you can tell its lacking a woman’s touch when it comes to the cleaning. The whole bathroom has a grotty feel to it to tell the truth.
    Once done, I skulk back to my room as quietly as I left. But tonight for no particular reason, I feel the need to investigate the night time world that belongs only to my alcoholic father. I just want a quick look. I’m unable to describe why I want to; I just know that I do.
    So instead of sensibility re-entering my room, I get on my innocent hands and knees and crawl to the top of the stairs. I direct my left ear downstairs but hear nothing. It’s not too late to turn around but I insist on moving forward, stair by stair.
    The allure of spying drives me onwards until I ’m able to peer into the living room. There’s still no noise or movement. Neither is there any of the usual sobbing that goes hand in hand with bottles of beer and whiskey. There’s none of the violent snoring that generally befouls the air every night either.
    With all my six years worth of courage, I progress the entire way to the living room entrance where I’m greeted by a sight that no child should ever have to witness.
    There, lying in front of the fireplace is my dead father. His face swollen and skin drained of colour. A bottle of rum spilled at his side. He finally drank himself to death.
    I stand there motionless , unsure what to do. What else does a six year old do when they find themselves parentless? I get down on my knees and stare at his lifeless remains and cry. Suddenly, the booze stinking corpse jumps to life and grabs at me. ---
     
    The hospital beds springs squeak loudly as I lurch forward. The sweats have gotten me bad. The bed linen is drenched. Stupid fucking nightmares .
    I can ’t help but produce a few tears in reflection to what I’ve just dreamt. All of it of course is true, except for the corpse attacking me. That was just the nightmare doing what nightmares do best; twisting your fears and reality together into a terrifying head fuck.
    My father was a good man really , but losing my mother while giving birth to me never sat right with him, and as a result we never really bonded. He looked after me of course and provided for me but I always felt growing up that he resented me for my mother’s death.
    How lonely he must have been to actually die from drink. Or maybe it was just a broken heart. Then again what about my broken heart? What about my sense of loss? I never even got to know my mother. How selfish he was. I was just a child.
    That ’s enough reminiscing for now. It’s not good for me to be getting all worked up in my condition. The morphine has helped and the pain has