Rampage

• Brett Patience, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2004

His voice echoed through the street, ricocheting off the compacted flats on either side of him. Mumbling a drunken song, he kicked a trash can to the side of him and sent it tumbling over, rolling twice, and ending up on our doorstep. Stumbling and slipping, he made his way to the door, and, fumbling with the doorknob, he opened it.

Dad was back from the pub.

Louder and louder his voice became, as he struggled up the stairs towards the kitchen. I was watching from behind the door frame, ready to run if Dad completely lost it and flew at me.

The kitchen chair scraped noisily on the old lino floor as Dad drew it back, and slumped into it. The rank smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing blanketed the kitchen, making me cough. I tried to muffle the sound with my hand, knowing the horrible consequences if Dad heard.

The dirty cups and plates sitting on the kitchen table were sent shattering to the ground as Dad flew into a rage, twisting around to see me peering from behind the door frame, watching him. He lurched out of his chair in anger, drawing his fist back ready to hit me.

He bellowed at me as I was running back to my bed, swearing vulgarly and trying to grab the back of my shirt to pull me toward him. I squeezed tightly under my bed, trying hard to distance myself from my raging father. His outstretched arm was reaching under my bed, trying to grab hold of me and pull me out from my hiding place.

His firm hand found my arm, and he pulled me out. He grabbed me by my shirt and heaved me up in front of his face, growling and yelling at me, his putrid beer breath making its way up my nostrils and making me gag.

I said that I was sorry over and over again, and I that I didn’t want him to hurt me, but he clenched his fist up into a fierce ball and smashed it into my jaw. I began crying, crying in fear, in anger, in pain, and in desperation. His hand hit me again, pounding my flesh and making me sore. All the while he was swearing at me, cursing and yelling, telling me off.

He flung me onto the ground, and I cowered in refuge in the corner of my room as I watched my father leave, stumbling down the hall to his bed.

As I sat crying and sobbing convulsively, I hugged my small body to comfort myself. Tears ran down my cheeks and dripped onto my pajamas. I felt so alone.