Pissing Myself

​I’m not sure what year of primary school I was in at the time. It was during the construction of the second house I had ever lived in, not even a kilometer down the road from our last house and still on our property. I think I would have been in about year 3 or 4 which would put me at about 8 yrs old.

I was screwing around in one of the rooms while dad was working on the house, my future bedroom actually, or maybe I was screwing around elswhere in the house and ran into that room in attempt to escape dad, I’m not sure. I must have done something to have pissed him off, maybe I knocked something over or something trivial, I’m sure it was something really trivial because I distinctly remember the confussion I felt about what had happened, I suppose being a child like I was at the time, I couldn’t yet have understood how people could take their anger out about something bothering them on others.

So there I was,  cornered in the empty room, his footsteps were shaking the house, it felt like a fucking earthquake. He appeared in the hallway outside the door, looked to his right to check the room opposite mine and then with a jerk that made me flinch, his head turned and his eyes fell on me. Fuck, it reminds me of that movie, The Shining. He  bent over me and began screeming, the degree of anger was extreme, he was irrate, his face was red and he was spitting all over me while his finger drove into my chest over and over again, it hurt. I can rememeber at that stage I was in the process of accepting that I was about to be beaten. That kind of feeling is one of surrender, kind of giving your body up, everything goes strangely tranquil as your consciousness sinks back into the furthest reach of your mind, as if to protect itself, I think the mind, at that point, has given up on the body, kind of saying ‘well, the bodies dead, I’m fuckin out of here!’. So, in a way it’s like a leap of faith….

By then I had already pissed my pants. But, the beating never came, although he had been violently poking my chest. I remember standing there after he walked out, kind of limp, I guess it was a state of shock, I doubt a beating would have made much of a difference, infact if he had just beaten me and not said a thing, it would have been better. I don’t think by that age humans have developed nerves for such a violent and intense barrage to the senses. Funny how even after all these years, writing about it illicits in me a kind of adrenal response, a fluttering of the heart.

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