I am a daughter of an alcoholic
Most girls always brighten up with the thought of being their father’s ‘little princess’. The portrait of a strong, brave and fierce knight; mixed with a soft, kind-hearted, lovable interior.
A special bond between a daughter and a father is rare as a pinite. From the sweet sessions of smoothing silky locks, travelling back to the unwritten history of her parents, and to the chilling adventures of his childhood.
Well… most girls.
I am a daughter, a young woman, a girl, a lady. All I know is how the rage of the night hangs in the air, haunts me. The darkness on my father’s voice disturbs the peaceful nerves that shakes the moon and the stars, while they guard me to my sleep. How the shattering glass became a familiar tune, waking me up from my slumber, and how the neighbors would flick their lights to watch the nightmare of our home unfolds.
Exchanging words with him is unusual. It only occurs wobbly. He would waddle his way to me, to give me an apologetic hug. I would smell that sickening and bitter scent that shaped in a bottle lingering on his skin.
The bond between us, is rare.
I would walk to a sharp knife, just to reach for him. It is painful, as my sobs and wails bleed on my feet.
Yet that’s how my love for him works.
