Page 61 of Puck'n Bully
“I should’ve thrown you away after your mother died,” he growls while I gasp and pant from pain. “I should’ve walked away when I had the chance. It would’ve saved me from raising a goddamn loser like you.” His breath stinks of whiskey, triggering memories I’d long suppressed.
Dad’s fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing hard, making it even more difficult to breathe. Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth, doing my best not to utter a single word.
Because begging Dad always made it worse. I’d learned a long time ago that fighting back wasn’t an option.
For a moment, the lack of oxygen dissociates me from my bruised, battered body. The line between the past and the present blurs, throwing me back to a time when I was six years old.
I was a small, fragile child, skating in the backyard rink my dad had built for me. It’d been snowing that day, the sky darkening as an early winter dusk set in.
Pride suffused me as I came to a stop. I’d been skatingandhandling the puck he gave me without slipping up. I couldn’t wait to see the surprised look on his face.
But Dad had just watched me with a cold, bored look. He stood at the edge of the rink, a bottle in his hand, his mouth twisting in disgust.
“You call that skating?” he’d sneered. “Let me see you do it again.”
I’d obeyed, skating across the ice again. And again. And again, until my legs shook and I fell face-first into the ice.
Dad had thrown his bottle on the ground, shattering it. He’d roared with rage, grabbing me and hitting my thin, weak body. While it hurt, nothing felt worse than his words.
“You’ll never be good enough.”
Dad had been a pro-NHL athlete. I remembered seeing him skate with his teammates while a crowd of thousands cheered him on.
Unfortunately, his glory didn’t last too long.
An unfortunate injury took it all away. And suddenly, I became his second chance, a replacement.
He taught me to skate while he recuperated.
And then, my mom died the next year. She was a gentle woman, her voice soothing and her embraces soft and warm.
Her death shattered my dad. He started drinking as his dream of playing in the NHL came to an end.
With no one around to shield me, I became his punching bag. He poured all his frustration into beating me and molding me into an ice hockey player.
I could always see the rage and regret in his eyes when he looked at me. He hated I was moving toward the dream he lost.
So, he repeated the same words over and over again, wishing I’d fail and end up just like him.
A strike to my left shoulder snaps me back to the present.
“You’re such a goddamn failure,” he spits as my vision blackens momentarily.
His words weren’t new. They didn’t need to be.
He finally lets my heavy weight drop to the ground. I stay there motionless, barely having the energy to move as he kicks me hard in the gut.
I let him take what he wants from me. He’s already robbed me of my childhood. He’s also made sure to make me believe love can never be something safe.
I tried to gain my dad’s love since I was a kid. No matter how many times he beat me, I still did my best to train hard and win medals and trophies. Everything I did was to make him proud.
But it never worked.
Dad still hates me. He’d rather see me weak and broken than become a pro hockey player. He’d rather I hate him than achieve the dream he’d lost a long time ago.
Numbness settles deep into me. It’s my only shield and survival tactic against the man who raised me.
21
