you lose your phone? Where even were you?”

Silence once more. I can feel my anger burning inside of me. He’s always had a problem with me. My sisters are his little girls. His pride and joys. Yet, me? He’s always looked at me with such disappointment. As if I was a mistake. The black sheep of the family. Problem child.

“What’s your issue with me, seriously?”

He doesn’t answer, just continues to look out of the window. I hammer on the brakes, making him jolt forward, almost banging his head off the windscreen.

“Fuck sake, Richard, you could’ve-“

“You should be wearing a seatbelt. Honestly, Da. Who’s the parent and who’s the child here? Now, tell me. What the fuck is your problem with me? What have I ever done to you?”

One of my earliest memories is bringing in a painting and he didn’t even bother to look at it, just continued on his phone. He placed it on the countertop, and then threw it in the bin when he thought I wasn’t looking. I want to get this out. Now.

“What, Da? What?”

He sighs, shaking his head in revulsion before looking away once more.

“Just take me home, Ritch… It’s been a long night. I just want my bed.”

“Why? What’s happened? Why won’t you just fucking talk to me?”

He still doesn’t budge. Exhaling frustratedly, I punch the steering wheel, making it pomp the horn promptly, before taking off my seatbelt and leaning back in the chair.

“I’m not leaving here until you talk to me. What the hell is wrong, Da?”

He laughs bitterly, bringing his hand to his mouth in annoyance. We sit like that for several minutes, before he yawns and reaches for the door handle. Falling out, he slams the door and continues his journey up the road. I stare at his retreating back, shaking my head, before trudging after him. Forgetting the keys in the ignition, just wanting to get answers from my father. I follow him, the headlights behind me. Making my shadow looming after him look huge. We must be about a quarter of a mile from the house now. He races on, not looking back. Is he limping? Or is it just my eyes playing tricks on me, following him in the moonlight?

“Da? Slow down. Fucking answer me, what has happened? What’s going on?”

I hurry after him. He might be closing in on his fifties, but the bull of a man still thunders on, not wavering for a second. It takes me several moments to catch up with him.

“Da? Dad! Please, talk to me. You’re fucking scaring me.”

It’s like I don’t even exist. Like he can’t hear me. As we round the corner on the Glenshane Road, our driveway in sight, I reach for his arm, and he swivels away from me. I grab it with both hands, urging him to slow down. He just drags me along, my feet skirting across the pavement. I give one tug and he makes a swipe for me, making me lose balance and fall onto the grass embanking the surrounding field. He towers over me, looking ominous in the dark, and I think he’s going to offer his hand, to help me up, but he just continues to stare down at me. I make out the silhouette of his balding head and his clenched fists.

Perching on my elbows, I’m determined not to succumb to his violent advances. Not to become the person I was before. Scared to even look at him. In case something I said would encourage him. For years, it was like this. Blaming cuts, bruises and even a broken hand on Gaelic injuries. When in fact, it was always him. Twisting my arm. Throwing me against a wall. Waiting until the house was empty, before unleashing his tyranny out on me. For something I said. Something I did. Or nothing in particular.

His punching bag. His rag doll. But I’m not going to stand for it any longer. I’m an adult now. I’ve just completed my first year at university. I haven’t had to live in fear. Sleep with one eye open. I’m a man, just like him, and I want us to talk it out like a pair of them. We’re old enough and ugly enough now. I want him to treat me like one. Show me as much respect as I deserve. We’re going to have it out. Whether he likes it or not.

But just as I go to open my mouth, I hear the approach of a car engine, coming from Drumahoe towards us. I turn my head to see headlights, but before I know it, Da is on top of me. He wrestles me back to the ground and wraps an arm around my face. I struggle to breathe, battering him with my hands before he pins them to the ground by rolling over on top of me. All I see is darkness. I scream, but the attempts are muffled by his jacket. Continuing to struggle, I hear him breathing in my ear. Feel his body tense. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Moments later, he relaxes and climbs back on his feet. I struggle for air, turning around to see the yellow sign of a taxi company returning back towards the town. Why was he so scared of a taxi? What the hell is going on? I watch as he marches towards home, before hobbling after him. My head light from the lack of oxygen, but adrenaline buzzing through my veins. What the fuck was that? Did he try to kill me? Had to stop himself? And why now? What is his problem? Is he a psychopath? He’s seriously starting to freak me out. I need to know where he was. If someone turns up missing in the morning, would I really have the balls to turn him in? You see it on the news and films and TV shows. Distraught and bereaved family members begging for someone to come forward. To let the police know

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