His shadow

 Growing up, I craved his approval. I followed him around like his shadow, wanting to be just like him. I wore a baseball cap that said John Deer, just like his, and work boots handed down by my older brother, the same kind dad wore.

He taught me to throw a ball and take a punch, to work hard, and to mind my elders' words without question. He also taught me a darker side of him, evident in my Mother's bruises and the empty bottles thrown in anger at anything in their way, including me.

My brother left home after high school, leaving me alone to take the brunt of his anger, but I promised myself one day I would make him stop. That day came when I was Seventeen.

I woke to hear my Mom's cries and found her curled up on the kitchen floor, clutching her arm in pain. I'm okay. She said don't make a big deal out of it. Your father is a good man. He drinks too much, that's all.

I found him in his workshop, his head tilted back, getting the last drop of whiskey. He saw me and threw the bottle towards me, aiming at my head, but I was faster than him and caught it in mid-air. Without any thought at all, I threw the bottle at him and struck his head with a thud I hear to this day.

My Mom testified at my trial, showing the court her many scars at the hands of my father, who she buried on the family plot where only three people gathered to pay respects. I was not one of them.

Years passed, and Mom grew old and silent most days. She rocked on the front porch swing until I got supper ready and helped her inside. She passed at Eighty-nine and was buried alongside her husband on the family plot. I said my goodbye, sitting next to her on that swing she loved so much, but I didn't go to the gravesite, which would only bring back memories of a man I once loved and followed around like his shadow.

I did my time, losing thirty years of my life. I'm not angry at anyone and admit my crime without remorse. I'm forty-seven years old, wondering what's next as I sit on the front porch swing, taking the last sip from the whiskey bottle, looking for something to throw it at. 

                                                                      

Mike 2025

               Like all of my stories, this one is fiction. I always combine details of truth with fiction to create the story I'm trying to convey to readers.