Why, Daddy? nosleep

I have no idea why I've chosen now to bring this up. I guess I've just finally reached a point in my life where I can tell others about it. I'm...slightly afraid of the repercussions of outing the story, but I'm going to do it. He can't hurt me now, or at least I hope he can't.

I'll start with the fact that I had a wonderful childhood. I really did! I had all the best toys, the best games, and the best friends and family anyone could ask for. Mom, Dad, and I would often take my friends to the theme park down the road, and spend hours playing with the characters, riding the rides, and eating all the junk food we could handle. It was the best time of my life, and I still remember it fondly. Well...most of it...

Everything sort of changed when I turned 13. I mean, it didn't all change at once. It was sort of gradual. My friends began to not be allowed to go to the theme park with us as much. Soon, we stopped going at all. Mom and Dad started telling me that "we can't afford it" and "why should we pay for your friends to go?" Little did I know that Dad had taken a horrible pay cut at work. They were keeping it from me, to keep me from worrying, but it wasn't working. I was still worried. Worried that I'd done something wrong and was the reason my friends and I couldn't go anymore.

Then, I started to learn my "friends" weren't really my friends. They would ask me when we were going to the theme park next, and when I said we couldn't go, they started to treat me differently. They started making fun of me at school, calling me lame and saying that my parents don't love me enough to take my friends and I to the theme park. Of course, I already believed that, so that just made it all the worse. Over time, kids stopped talking to me. After that, they started actively avoiding me. I sat alone at lunch every day, and walked home alone every afternoon. I thought it couldn't get worse; I was wrong.

One day, when I got home from school, Mom was gone. I found that odd, because she was always working around the house when I got home at 3:30 every day. I called around the house, hoping to find her in the laundry room or the den. No answer came. I knew Dad wouldn't be home until 5:30, so I figured she must have run out for some errands. I WAS 13 now...maybe she thought I could take care of myself. Then...I smelled it.

It was a rotten smell, like someone had burnt something in the oven. I ran to the kitchen, only to find black smoke rising from the door in front. I quickly turned the knob to "off," and slammed the door open. Rocked by the wave of heat coming from the oven, I had to stand back for a second. When I was able to compose myself and see through the heat waves, I screamed. It was higher pitched and louder than I had ever screamed before. My dog, Godric (huge Harry Potter fan that I was) was sitting there, in a turkey pan, skinned and prepared. I only knew it was him because of the missing paw he'd lost before we adopted him.

That's when Mom ran in from the garage. That's where she'd been. I wasn't supposed to find this, she told me. I was never supposed to know, and she was going to tell me he'd gotten out the back and run away. Yeah, the dog with 3 paws was going to run away, Mom. Real smooth. I cried a lot that day, but I guess I understood. Mom and Dad were tight on cash, and they did what they needed to do.

5:30 came and Dad didn't come through the door. 6:30, 7:30, 8:30 all passed with no sign of my father. Mom and I were forced to eat Godric alone, and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. She told me Dad had made her do it, as he didn't have enough for meals this week. He was a good boy, and helped us even after he died, I guess.

Finally, about 9:00, Dad came through the front door. He slammed it behind him, turned directly to me, and said "OH! There's the worst little mistake I ever made! Get the hell out of my way, I'm hungry." With that, he literally threw me out of his way. I landed on my butt and sat in shock, along with my Mother. I knew she always loved me. It was Dad I was worried about.

He took the leftovers of Godric out of the fridge and put them in the microwave. As he went to hit start, all the lights in the house went off, and the screen went blank. Usually, when this happened, it was storming outside, and they'd come right back on. This time...they didn't. Dad lost it then. That's when things got really bad. He slammed the start button on the microwave, screaming "they said I had a week! The rat bastards said I had a week!!!" Eventually, he had slammed the microwave so hard, it fell off the back of the hutch it was perched on.

He turned to my mother. I knew this was going to get bad, so I ran to my room. I couldn't hear much from there, and I knew I wasn't going to want to. I slammed the door behind me, but could already hear my mom screaming in pain and dad yelling at her incoherently (of course, I made out the occasional curse word). Suddenly, Mom's screams stopped, but I still could hear a dull, but moist thud every few seconds. This finally stopped with the giant crack I heard. I heard something hit the floor, then footsteps coming to my room. I knew I had to get out of there, or I had to try to fight my dad. I don't know how I knew what had happened, but I knew I'd never see Mom again.

He finally got to my door. Thank god I had a lock. He slammed and pulled on it, screaming my name. I thought he'd break it down, but suddenly, the banging of the door stopped, and I heard footsteps moving away from my door. I breathed a sigh of relief. I still had to get out, but I didn't know how. I had one window in my room, but it was too small for me to fit through. I couldn't go out the door, as I was sure he was waiting on me. These were the days before cell phones had permeated culture, and I didn't have one, so I couldn't call for help. While I was figuring out an escape plan, I heard footsteps coming to my door again. This time, they sounded a lot heavier, like something was weighing them down. Then, a loud crack, as my door began to cave it. I saw a shimmer of blue through a small rift in the door; he'd begun to smash it in with his bowling ball, the one from his night league.

Knowing I didn't have much time to lose, I ran to my closet to find the only thing I could use as a weapon: my Little League baseball bat. That aluminum stick (unbeknownst to me) would save my life that night. He was coming through the door, so I took my best batting stance. Bet you wish you hadn't taught me so well, huh, Daddy? I was ready to swing away, and I didn't care how hard I had to do it. He'd killed my mom, I knew that. He didn't deserve to keep his life after that.

The door finally broke after about the 10th hit. Dad loomed there, waiting for me. "Alright, you little piece of crap, I'm gonna erase the mistake I made with that WHORE 13 years ago. Come here, and make it easy..." His speech slowed a bit when he saw my stance. At this point, his head was a fastball down the middle of the plate in the bottom of the ninth. I had to hit it, and I wanted to hit it as hard as I could.

Grand. Fucking. Slam. I nailed the asshole right between the eyes, cracking his skull. He slumped to the floor. He was still breathing, but I didn't care at that point; I wanted the hell out of that house. I ran over his crumpled form and grabbed the house phone on my way out the front door. I immediately dialed 9-1-1, avoiding letting myself look into the kitchen, where Mom was. The police told me later that without me, they never would have identified her.

I ran to my next door neighbor's house (they'd always seemed to like me) and pounded on their door. Luckily, they were home and let me in, seeing the blood caked on my face from my dad's busted head. I called the police and they were there in minutes. Luckily, Dad was still laying on the floor where I left him when they got there. Apparently, his BA level should have killed him before I got the chance to try. He was convicted the next month.

That's all been 11 years ago now. And now, I'm fearing for my life. My dad was released a month ago, per the police records. He's found me. He's fucking found me. I moved 3 states and over 600 miles away, and the bastard still found me.

I'll start with what happened yesterday.

I was just doing my shopping, but, the local pounds have seemed pretty empty lately, and they've started looking at me funny for coming in to adopt so many puppies. None of their business, though, is it? Anyways...

I just caught a glimpse of him. It wasn't even really a glimpse, just like one of those "I know what I saw" moments. It was just as another man walked into pound and the door was closing behind him. I'll never forget that scar in the middle of his forehead and the disgusting green eyes behind that crooked grin. I did one of those double-takes, where you have to look again to make sure you're not going completely insane, but it was too late; the door was shut, and I was sure he was gone. I had to hope that I was wrong.

I wasn't.

So, I drove home with my purchase, still barking in the back seat. As soon as I turned onto the road, a raggedy old pickup started tailing me. He was trying to do one of those old-school buddy cop movie moves, staying a short distance behind me. Yeah, that doesn't make you even more conspicuous, nimrod.

However, if that had been it, I could have rolled it off my shoulders and kept driving. Of course, that wasn't it. I looked in the rearview, expecting some idiot flashing his brights because my blinker was on or something. I really wish that'd been what I saw.

Sitting in the driver's seat, much to my horror, was my father. He was still a fat pig of a man, accentuated by a sterotypical, trailer-trash-class, stained wifebeater (huh, fitting). Of course, what was really to my horror wasn't seeing him, it was seeing what was in his passenger seat; my poor mother. Of course, she wasn't alive, mind you. No, that rat bastard had dug her up in the cemetery. He'd been out for a month, and there was still dirt and mud on her, not to mention the collection of critters crawling in and through her. He couldn't be bothered to even clean her up?!

I hit the accelerator harder than I ever had in my little Ford hatchback. Damn thing roared but went nowhere. I missed my '76 Mustang more than I ever had in that moment. Of course, I barely put any more distance between myself and that psychopath.

I got home a few minutes later, with him still tailing me. Luckily, he's not a horribly strong man. The locks held him out. But, he keeps pounding. He's still out there. My dinner...I mean...adoptee and I are sitting here, scared out of our minds. Help us, reddit. The door is starting to splinter...

Submitted September 22, 2016 at 11:18PM by malchious13 http://ift.tt/2dkxtl7 nosleep