Excerpt #6:

A Child Abused for The Evening's Entertainment

    My nightmare usually started about halfway through the evening. I'd be upstairs (in my bedroom) waiting for the inevitable. The first hint of trouble was always the creaking of the stairway door below. That was the "alarm" going off. After that, there'd be an ominous streak of light that slowly travelled up along the stairway wall, creeping along the hallway and into my dark room, where it would somehow, unerringly, focus down on me. Then I'd hear my mother's drunken voice garble out the familiar words: "Oh Chucky Boy! Come downstairs; we want you to meet some people. Besides, your father has a bone to pick with you." Whenever it was time to go down (to be beaten and ridiculed in front of a drunken crowd), urine would began dribbling down my leg to let me know it was time to jump and run like the little jumpin' jack that they wanted me to be.

     _____he'd call me into the living room where he'd now be sitting with several other soaks...and well soaked they always were. That's what really got them all going, the alcohol. That set the stage, as it was, for "showtime." My father, being even drunker this time, was ready to roll. It was time to show everyone what a man he was, and what a burden I'd been. His words still ring clear today. "Get in here, you little son of a bitch. I've got a goddamn bone to pick with you." When those words were slurred out, I'd know the show had commenced. Before I could even get into the living room, I'd get a swift backhand swat across the face with one hand, while he'd grab me by the front of my shirt with the other. Beer would spray from his red bloated face all over me. Then he'd throw my raggedy body in front of them all for the big afternoon kick off, right in my hind end. But there were no referees to watch over me, and no flags were ever thrown.

Then the old soak would stand tall and in all of his disillusioned manhood stare over me like I was some kind of animal to be slaughtered. Staring down he'd whip off his belt and then really start the show. To add to the spectacle, he'd remove his torn, beer soaked T-shirt in order "to get some stretchin' room," as he'd brag. The drunken schmuck never realized that he was exposing his puny, alcohol-weakened body...to everyone's shock. Then, reeling around in excitement, the old fart would commence to lash and kick me as his admirers cheered. That should give some idea of how my summer vacations went. The physical abuse left the hate that I'll always harbor for the old drunk. But he wasn't done yet...as he used to belch out each time he got to this point, "don't worry fellas, I'm just startin' on him now." It was his piercing verbal abuse that left the real scars.

During those horrendous times I was between the ages of five on up to nine or ten.  After that my father saw that I was getting bigger so he watched his step.  He didn't want to look like the abusive weakling that he really was if I were to fight back and, just perhaps, knock him down for a change.