Free The Devil's Monologue by Kimberly Fuller Page A

couldn't face my demon like this. The door suddenly ran
away from me before I even had a chance to get close to it, while
the bed inched nearer. I raised a heavy arm up in front of me and
slapped myself hard across the face.
    “Walk...wa..wake..wake the
fuck up,” I told myself. My body would not comply, nor would my
mind. Shit.
I sat down, defeated by
my own arrogance. I started to giggle for no other reason than I
couldn't figure out what else to do.
Knock. Knock.
A faint sound crept into my mind, making my
thoughts cower in unknown fear, the giggling halting quickly. I
opened my mouth to answer, but couldn't remember what to say.
Knock! Knock!
“Jacky!”
Oh, no.
This time, not only did my thoughts cower,
but my entire being wished to dig a deep trench and crawl into it
until the Old Man went away. I didn't want to face him right now. I
couldn't face him right now.
“Jacky?” the Old Man asked this time,
opening the door slowly. His dark peppered hair appearing first,
followed by blood shot blue eyes. I remained on my bed, unable to
move or speak. Even now, I still fear him.
“Jacky! I was calling you,” he said
hoarsely, the words mushing together as he forced them out.
I sat.
“Answer me, Boy!”
I looked up with the same blood shot eyes
as my father, his face revealing his distaste for my drinking.
    His half smile turned into
a snarl as I stared at him. I knew he could smell the alcohol, so
swimmingly thick in my room, the bottle clearly empty on the desk.
In an instant, his hand raised and came down thunderously against
the side of my face. There was no slap or sting, just a straight up
punch to the face thump. I slammed hard against my bed, pushing
back the urge to throw up the whiskey from my otherwise empty
stomach. I can't let him win this
one, I thought.
Achingly, I sat back up, staring him down
again. The nausea beginning to diminish and fill will something
more angry. He reached back, fist ready, and struck me again.
Bubbles filled my vision as I hit the hard floor instead of the
soft bed. That good old need to puke soared back into my foggy
brain.
My knuckles crunched as my hand balled into
a tight fist. I pushed through the pain and the vomit rising in my
throat. Before the Old Man could get in another blow, I jabbed him
one right in the jaw, barely making him quiver. I almost laughed,
or cried, I couldn't quite tell which one. He shook his head
slightly as I swung at him again, making contact with his
temple.
Still, he stood. I felt stupid and unsure,
angry and agitated. We seethed in silence for several tense moments
before the Old Man finally chipped away his aggression.
“You really want to grow up like me, Boy?”
he asked out of the blue, almost tearful in his plea.
    I answered before even
thinking, “Don't you get it, Dad , I am you.”
A wash of sadness filled his eyes, as we
both realized what I had just admitted. Unfortunately, it was true.
I was him. Disappointments and all. The part I left out was that,
no matter how much I was like him, I could never be as good as he
was.
The Old Man left the room with large welts
on his face. No doubt he headed for his “office”. I landed firmly
back on my bed, feeling the rush of blood to my own face
intensifying. With the door shut, and the whiskey gone, I cried in
shame until I passed out.

 
     
     
26
     
I had almost forgotten about that one. The
worst thing to admit sometimes is the truth.
Dad was a drunk.
I was a drunk.
Dad was abusive.
I was abusive.
Dad was a failure.
I was a failure.
I was my father.
The image in the reflection suddenly grew
even more disgusting to look at. All I could see now was the Old
Man staring back at me, laughing with that always disapproving
face. At least the Old Man has sense enough to stay alive all
theses years. I couldn't even manage to do that.
Where the fuck did it all
go wrong?
I tried to imagine back at the happy go
lucky moments of my childhood where Dad and I were pals, but all I
can see is a blank