My father used to look at me from across the table; most times in a crowded diner - not really looking at me, or anything in particular, for that matter; he was looking through everyone. He never talked much. Always silent. And he didn't like people much. When he did have something to say it was normally to criticize, yell, scream, or to be mean just in general.
I was five then. I only remembered that him and my Mother never could get along; at least, that is how he would phrase it when there was trouble brewing in the air. My father was Irish and full of drunken spirits. One time, I remember taking money off the top of the refrigerator where my father put his money during most occasions. I had seen him do that several times before, and got curious. I climbed the counter to grab the money off the top; at that time, I didn't think it was such a big deal to take stuff; however, later on, it apparently was. I headed out the door while my father slept; he worked night shift then, leaving me in the middle of night to deal for myself and the boogeyman, that my father said, would creep out eventually, to eat me up like a pig in a blanket; I never knew if that was meant to be funny or sardonic, but all the same, it petrified me.
As I headed out the door with money in hand. I went up to the corner street right above the hill, passing the community pool, that was surrounded by gates; scurrying up the hill to buy all the candy a boy could want; slushies, mary janes, italian ices by the gallon, and anything else I could of fancied. Spending the entire day eating ounces upon ounces of sugar only seemed natural.
Come four PM the laughter and enjoyment came to a shocking halt. My father had been up. I was sitting on the hill by the pool. My father only asked me one simple question: "Did you take money off the refrigerator?", I only nodded in kind, too scared to say anything else. He was going to the store when he asked me this. When he returned twenty minutes later, he only gave a command to come home, now. I had silently followed behind him like a mule, already predicting the possibility of what was going to happen, and what it was that I had done so wrong; it kind of made me think back to Halloween where my back tooth was coming loose; my father had told me then, that if i couldn't get it out, he would use his pliers and pull them out for me. I cried then in fear, and then he had punched me.
As I was following my father, it was getting harder and harder to walk. I had felt like I should have turned around and ran for my life and go to find Peter Pan to fly me to Never Never Land. That was impossible though; Father would find me. And it would be worse.
As we had reached our apartment door, I had quivered inside, the keys were making noise; they were going into the lock and turning the tumble; father hurried in silently, slamming the door in my face as I reluctantly tried to follow. Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed, it had seemed - suddenly the door swung open and an arm came flying out, grabbing me by my left arm; I was jerked so fast, I did not have the time to react in fear. The only thing, then, that I knew was flying right into this chair that had wooden arm rests, with a dark green apolstery; my head cracked into the armrest. And quick pain overtook me. A vertigo. That was was five feet from the door. My father picked me up with both hands, elevated me over his head and then threw me toward the terrace screen door, I did not hit the screen door though, but as I landed I felt the warm pain from my buttocks going through my spine to my already aching head; the pain was excruciating and it had felt like a million stingers piercing me all at once. I didn't remember crying, because I remembered my crying would escalate the rage my father was feeling at that moment; but no matter how big of a boy I showed him, that I was he still hated it. He yelled like a madman, but I could not remember anything he said, then what I had done was bad. He creeped toward me as I tried to get up on my legs, but couldn't. His eyes were red; his face was flushed; and whatever hair he had on his head looked like a lion's mane - fierce and on end in predatory mode. He grabbed me by the neck then forcefully slammed me down again; at that time, I felt the tears of pain start to well up inside of me; I didn't know if I was hurt or even bleeding, but I knew it had hurt to walk; again, my father came, this time wanting to stomp on me. I had howled in fear, pleading for him to stop, but he didn't. He picked me up hurled me a few more feet like a bean bag toward my bedroom. By the time all was said and done, I was being thrown on top of my bed, I only remembering the bouncing against the wall and somehow being a given a moment of grace, as my father's fury seemed to start mellowing down for the count; probably realizing, much more, and he would have to explain me to a doctor, as I was close to passing out from shock or otherwise. I couldn't stop crying. I remember that. He walked into the bathroom. Came back out. And this time had picked me up to console me knowing what he had done; though he had still shown indifference to the whole thing. I had only asked myself where was mother in all of this. She was gone. Divorced my father, when I was four. And took off to New York city without even saying or explaining why I could not come along. I was only told then it was for the best, and she had tried her best to take me away from my father, but he wouldn't let her. A year later, we would pick up and move to the big apple in pursuit to find my mother.