Treasured Memories

old photos in the wooden box
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I try to exorcise the demons in my mind by writing them down. Perhaps they will have less power over me. Sometimes it works.

 

My father drunkenly staggered into my room one night. Not an unusual occurrence when he drank, he hated drinking by himself. I usually hid myself under the covers and hoped he would forget about me. Not so that night.

 

Also, this time he had a gun.

 

I hopped out of bed and stood there. I had no idea he had a gun and would he PLEASE stop pointing it at me? His incoherent rambling swept right by me. All I could see was the barrel of that rifle pointing straight at my chest.

 

I endured a lot at his hands over the years, abuse, neglect, disinterest. This however, was new. Was the rifle loaded? I had no way to know. I stood there, hands at my sides. There was nowhere to run, he was blocking the only exit.

 

He mumbled something, then raised the gun and sighted down the barrel. He cocked the hammer and aimed. At his son.

 

At his son.

 

Some say that your life flashes before your eyes in these moments. All I saw was the barrel as he pulled the trigger. Click.

 

He laughed, then stumbled out of the room. I stood there for several minutes after, disbelief and terror warring inside me. Numbly, I sat back down on of my bed.

 

Only by cutting these memories out can I be free.

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