The fighting--it had to stop. Really, she shouldn't be listening, but her parents fought constantly and she was a curious little girl, and she would sit on the stairs, unseen, and listen.
It was always the same. Her dad would rant and rave about how everything was wrong.
The house was messy, the kids were out of control, she was making his life miserable.
From time to time, her mother would make a feeble attempt to defend herself but after a few faltering attempts, he'd shut her down and start again.
There were candy wrappers in the car, he was sick of the folded laundry always atop the washing machine, his shirts were never ironed properly.
The little girl truly shouldn't be listening. It was reckless because if her Dad were to storm upstairs, he might see her. Then what? She knew and yet she sat, night after night, transfixed on the stair. As her dad continued his tirade, she felt an overwhelming sadness....she hated when he yelled at her mother like that and she wanted to march down and tell him to stop. Bile rose from her stomach up into her throat. She had to do something.
The mail was never stacked right, she spent too much time with the neighbors and not enough time at home, the kids weren't getting good grades in school because she didn't help enough with homework.
The little girl mustered up all her courage, stood up, and padded down the stairs--fuzzy socks, flannel nightgown adorned with little hearts. A firm resolve welled up in her. It was reckless, but she'd tell her Daddy to stop it. Stop being so mean and hurtful.
They both looked up at the little girl as she walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing, trying not to cry. So many things she wanted to say. Tell her Dad to stop being so mean. Tell her Mom to stand up for herself. She wanted to relay how all this fighting hurt her and kept her up nights.
"What the hell is she doing here," her father thundered. He stared at her, eyes blazing.
Oh, so many things she wanted to say but the words wouldn't come out. They never did. She was mute, frozen, unable to move.
"WELL?"
"What is it, Honey," her mother asked, moving toward her.
"She needs to be in bed for Christ's sake; tomorrow is a school day. This is precisely what I'm saying, this house and these kids are out of control," her Dad turned to her. "Now get your ass back upstairs into bed."
Her mother reached her and gently put her arm on the little girl's back and walked her up to her bedroom. Tucking her in, she kissed her and told her everything would be alright. But the little girl believed none of it. Her mother walked stiltedly out of the room.
After a brief period, the little girl rose and went back to her perch on the stairs.
The food is never healthy enough and everyone is getting fat, the kids lose everything and this morning he couldn't even find a comb for his hair, she spent too much time on the phone, she was spoiling that bratty little daughter.
The little girl knew she could never stop all this from happening. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sat, listening to her Dad berate her Mom, who sat and said nothing. The little girl also could say nothing.
3 comments:
It's easy to forget the destructiveness of criticism. How brutal for this little girl to listen to her father rage against her mother and family. Words can do more than cut. You brought the entire child's emotional world and being to life. Impressive.
I admit these prompts can careen out of control, but what wonders come from them. I like that they challenge us to find something new - albeit within our comfort zones. There is an untapped world in these exercises and you're discovering it.
Excellent writing here! I felt as if I was that little girl eavesdropping on her father's ranting and raving to her mother, and felt as it was a pretense of an episode of domestic violence, though not in a physical sense.
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