Once again, I was startled out of sleep by the terrifying sounds of my father violently retching and moaning over the toilet on the other side of the wall by my bed.
Shocked and frightened, I didn’t dare move. I hated those nights, hated them with such passion there are no words.
It was so horrible, I began to feel sick, too. It went on for what seemed like days. I lay there with my pillow over my head, my fingers in my ears, humming and biting my teeth together repeatedly, trying unsuccessfully to drown out the horrifying sounds. I was paralyzed with fear.
And then I was equally terrified when the sounds stopped and it was deathly silent on the other side of the wall. I was certain that he must be dead this time, having been so violently sick. I began to shiver and shake uncontrollably.
But as with so many other occasions upon which he’d had far too much to drink, he was not dead. And I knew it would probably just be a few days before I’d awaken to the same nightmare.
Or to the other one that was becoming all-too-frequent since he started these evening entertaining jobs and coming home very late.
SLAM! went a door. “Shhhhh! Please! Stop!” Oh, no! Mummy is crying again!
“I will not stop!” Daddy, please don’t yell! Please don’t! You’re scaring me!
And he carried on raging while my mother carried on crying.
WHAM! Pounding on something, I didn’t know what. I prayed it wasn’t my mother.
“Aw, quitcher bitchin’!” he yelled.
“Please! Please! Just stop! “ she begged.
“Aw, fer Chrissake!” BANG! BANG!
She was sobbing then. “It’s 3.00! I have to get up for work in a few hours! Please, stop!”
Every time this happened, I was certain he was going to kill her. Or that one of them would have a heart attack.
Someone was going to die.
All I could do was lie in my bed, terrified and shaking…