I woke up to the dark. A loud crash from downstairs snapped me to attention. I didn't need to turn on the light; I wasn't surprised. I already knew what was happening and who it was.
As I descended the stairs, his shadow loomed against the wall, a familiar figure contorted in the act of smashing mugs and plates. He was rummaging, frantically searching for something on the floor. The sound of ceramic shards crunching under my feet sent a chill through me.
"Father, what are you doing?"
He lifted his face towards me. His expression held nothing but raw hate.
"Where is the beer I left in the fridge!"
I sighed. "Don't you remember? You drank them all last night."
The work incident had dimmed him, reducing him to a shell of his former self. His limp and that quick, easy scowl were all that remained of the father I once knew.
"And what was that, a sigh?" he hissed at me. "Who do you think you are, sighing at me?"
His fist grazed past my ear. It wasn't the first time. It didn't matter who was at fault, he just needed a valve to release his rage, and that valve was always either me or my mother.