Those were the days when we thought dad might be god, or at least a god. In any case, he had a power over us, which superseded any god that may have thought to reign on high.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God."
My faith was lost, replaced by a hatred so pure it burned white hot from a source deep within my soul, yet to be saved. But I favored survival, so I played the subservient, fearful, meek and obedient child. In secret, I plotted and schemed an uprising to take down the tyrant, who embodied my father.
We did bow to him. We did worship him. We did offer up sacrifices. We sacrificed ourselves on a daily basis.
It was Teeny, who escaped his wrath. The youngest of the four, born early, small, but with a vengeance.
In a land of gods and monsters, we were her holy mother. We were her angels. We absorbed her sins. We all hovered over her as eagles, top of the food chain. Dad was the threat. Teeny's survival rate was 50/50.
He had already poisoned our mother. She was a shell of a person held upright only by a small hope that one day she would be made holy from the suffering she endured on this earth, and the handful of pills she washed down several times a day stealing any glint of light that may have once been seen in her blue greys. Now those eyes, encased in heavy lids and dark mooned skin, more aptly could be described as a smog that swallowed a once beautiful city.
Our world consisted of a modest, ranch-style house of pain. Within the walls we dodged and fought off a man, taken down by business failings, but kept inflated by a prideful ego. We later learned all of his monstrous roar was a cover for his self-hatred and slipping sense of control.
It's funny how a few lines of cocaine can make a man, small in stature, appear larger than life.
Maybe God is a drug addict.
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