Hey! This is a short story I've been working on for a while. I just finished writing it and I think it's not that bad but it's probably filled with mistakes, so be as harsh as you need to.
By the way, it's the first time I post a story on YWS *laughs nervously*
Thanks for reading!
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My bedroom was in complete darkness as I struggle to drown out the noise from the room next door with my pillow. My father was scolding my mother with his familiar loud voice. I didn’t understand what he said, but I sure heard the words “fucking bitch!” that he added at the end of every single sentence. I hated swear words, especially coming from my dad, who had once encouraged me to use proper language.
I didn’t know what they fought about and, frankly, I did not care. The whole thing just seemed stupid to me. There were just a couple of arguments between them and they were going to let them ruin their marriage, and our entire family with it as well. It just wasn’t fair. We used to be happy. I could still remember those times. I was not even sure when it was that things at home turned into this mess.
“I hate you!” my mom shouted back at him at the top of her lungs.
The fight continued for several minutes, getting worse with every word they yelled at each other. And then I heard a thud and my mom’s scream. That was always the worst of it, because although I refused to believe it, I knew he was hitting her again. I quickly covered my ears with my pillow as I tried to recall, when had this happened to our family?
To tell the truth, I didn’t realise of what was going on in the beginning, or maybe I chose not to see it. I simply accepted my mother’s dumb responses when I questioned her about it, contented to believe everything was going to be alright between my mommy and daddy. As if being blind for a little longer could make troubles disappear.
Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had acknowledged what was happening from the beginning. This way I could have prepared myself for the blow of knowing they would soon get a divorce. They hadn’t actually told me but it was obvious they would and though I had tried to lie to myself, pretending I had it all figured out and wouldn’t shed a tear, I soon found it did not work all that well. The mere of thought of seeing my dad only three times a week sent chills down my spine. I couldn’t help it.
All because I had remained oblivious to the matter until the day I accidentally walked into the kitchen during one of their fights, just in time to see my dad slap my mum in the face with all his might, a furious and certainly frightening expression on his face. By the time they noticed me and managed to compose, I had seen enough. That was when I started to see my father for who he really was. The jerk who had ruined my mother’s life and almost mine too. Why had I tried to cover it up for so long? Tried to convince myself that it wasn’t his fault? That he still loved mum? Such a shameful lie!
As I said before, my bedroom was completely dark on the night of their last fight. All the disturbing noises came to a stop eventually, and my father stomped out of the room next door to mine, slamming the door behind him as he did whenever he was mad. His footsteps echoed loudly on the parquet as he hastily made his way across the corridor. Not stopping once, he barely slowed his pace a bit as he passed by my door, so I could scarcely catch a glimpse of his shade as he did so. Many years ahead I would still wonder if he was looking at me from the corner of his eyes as he walked away or if it was just my bewildering imagination. And then he was gone. Swallowed by the darkness once again.
I didn’t cry the next day when I found out through my mom that he had not come back the previous night. Nor did I cry when he didn’t return on the following weeks. I was obviously affected by my mum’s wretchedness, but I was also glad my father was finally gone. Not even I would have predicted this sort of reaction in myself, yet I was not at all miserable. My mother and I, we were at last free.
