This is a memory from one particularly cruel time my father made me play the Don't Fall Game1. In this memory, I don't recall exactly how old I am, but it was before the age of five because we were still living in the duplex.

My father called me into the kitchen for dinner.

Him calling me for dinner should have been my first warning that something bad was about to happen. He rarely interacted with me except to abuse me.

The thing was my mom starved me when no one else was around. I rarely got to eat until Dad got home from work. So, my mind was on my one and only meal for the day.

When I walked into the kitchen, instead of already sitting down and eating, like he normally does, my dad was standing beside my chair. I nervously walked over, expecting the worst. He picked me up and stood me up on the chair.

"Don't sit down until I say so." He said this matter-of-factly.

I already knew the game. I had to stand in the chair for as long as I could, without falling, until he told me I could sit down.

I stood there easily. The chair had a wide, flat, non-moving surface, unlike any of the other things he had made me stand on before. I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself, because I was sure I would win the game this time.

I stood there, watching my parents eat, when I realized just how hungry I was. We had never played this game during mealtime before.

My stomach growled, and my mouth watered. The game had suddenly become much harder. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't think of anything but food.

I looked down at my plate, brown stuff, white stuff, green stuff. I was really, really hungry. I figured Dad would probably let me eat as soon as he had finished his own food. I just had to wait until then.

I looked up and watched him as he took his time with each mouthful, chewing slowly and deliberately. He kept telling Mom how good everything tasted. This was also strange because Dad rarely said nice things to anyone.

Mom silently looked down at her plate, but ate, nevertheless.

One bite. Two bites. Three bites. Ugh! They were taking so long.

Forgetting the game for a moment, I squat down.

"EHNNNNNNNNNNT!!" It was my dad, correcting me with just a sound. It reminded me of the game show sound that let a person know they got the wrong answer.

I immediately stood up but began feeling a sensation growing in my body. Frustration. Agitation. Anxiety. I didn't know these words back then.

My body cycled through feeling hollow and too full and back to hollow again. Then there was a sudden awareness of my skin. I could feel it from the inside. I rubbed my arms in an attempt to ease the sensation.

Every attempt at comforting myself seemed to only make things worse.

I was close to crying, but I knew that would just make my dad mad, so I resisted. I squeezed my hands open and closed, but the sensation kept building. I cross my arms and hug myself. I forget what I am doing for a moment and squat down again.

I quickly stand back up before my dad has the chance to correct me. Making a mistake like that could elicit a punishment, and I didn't want to be sent to bed without supper again.

I was so hungry at this point, and my food was right there, in front of me, within reach.

Mom finished her food but continued to look down at her plate in silence. This worried me.

Dad took his last bite and chewed for a very, very, very long time.

Almost. Almost there. I get to eat as soon as he's finished.

He puts his fork down, sits back in his chair, and rubs his belly. "That was good. Is there any more?"

My mom, still looking at her empty plate, shook her head silently.

Then, dad did something confusing; he reached across the table, grabbed my plate, and dragged it to the spot in front of him.

I watched for a moment before I realized his intent. I blurted out, “No!” before I could stop myself and quickly placed my hands over my mouth.

Instead of being angry for my outburst, my dad grinned.

He wouldn't eat my food. Right? What would be the point of eating my food after he had just had his?

He looked me in the eye and started eating. I was in a panic as he ate bite after bite, telling me how good it was.

Then, he pushed my plate away and loudly burped.

When I realized my plate was empty, my confusion and anxiety changed to anger. Something in me snapped. I shouted, “You’re a bad daddy!”

I had seen a volcano erupt on TV. My dad reminded me of that volcano.

He swept everything off the table and onto my mother. He then flipped the table over in the opposite direction and came for me. My body stiffened and shrank in on itself; head down, shoulders up and forward, arms pulled to chest, but my palms out just in case I needed to block a hit to my face.

Just before he grabbed me, I tried to squat down, but he seized me by my upper left arm and yanked me to my tip toes. He struck me so hard that my hips were pushed forward and my feet came off the chair. His grip kept me from falling. He continued to spank me while I dangled in the air.

With a hold still on my upper arm, he carried me to my room like a stinky bag of trash and threw me onto the bed.

I hurriedly crawled out of his reach and pressed myself against the wall.

He started yelling, screaming that he worked his ass off to put food on the table, keep a roof over my head, the lights on, clothes on my back and the toys I played with.

I didn’t know what any of that had to do with him eating my food.

He shouted, “I’m a good father! I'm a good man!"

It didn't happen often, but even as a child, there were times when I could not control myself, when I decided I'd rather die than submit to him.

This was one of those times.

I was so scared that the words stuck in my throat; all I could manage was a broken whisper, "You’re a bad daddy."

There was a moment when I thought time had stood still. Where my words hung in the air long enough to make me rethink them, regret them. When the waiting for his reaction was almost too much to bear.

Then the volcano exploded.

He turned into a monster. He roared, and when he did, spit flew out of his mouth. His face was red, and veins bulged out of it and his neck.

He came towards me. I put my hands over my head as he reached over me and grabbed the curtains. He yanked them so hard that even the curtain rods came down onto me.

He crossed the room, grabbed things from the top of the dresser, and threw them at me.

Then he is right next to me, screaming in my face. He's just screaming over and over and over again. I put my hands over my ears in an attempt to keep him out of my head. I felt like a bell that was being rung. Every cell of my body vibrated with the primal fear of the beast that was my father.

I didn't know why, but I started screaming too; just a raw, guttural sound pouring out of me, matching him. I wasn’t trying to copy him; it was like his rage had invaded my body and transformed into pure panic.

Then he was gone. In the other room, I heard loud crashes and glass breaking. Then the same sounds came from the kitchen. Finally, the front door slammed closed, and the only sound I heard was my own exaggerated, rhythmic pants.

I don't know how long it took, but I slowly calmed myself down, and my breathing returned to as normal as it could get under the circumstances.

I figured my father had left the house since the front door had been slammed. Still, I stayed in the corner, against the wall, for what seemed like a long time. I listened for any clue as to what was happening in the rest of the house.

Nothing. I heard nothing. Not a sound. Not dad. Not mom.

I didn't know what to do, so I continued to wait. What would happen when he came back? Where was Mom? Did he kill her? I didn't hear her scream. Did she go with him? Were they ever coming back? Did I want them to? Not knowing what was going on was maddening.

I slowly crawled to the end of the bed and climbed down. I went down into a squat position and waited for a while, watching and listening. When nothing happened, I stood and took a few steps, making sure to stay ready to run back to my corner.

I was so scared, but I needed to know what was going on.

I repeated this pattern of taking a few steps and then pausing to take things in until I got to the living room.

Once there, my childhood became a little bit scarier.

The room was unrecognizable. Every piece of furniture had been hurled somewhere wrong - upside down, sideways, broken into pieces. There were holes in the walls and unrecognizable debris scattered everywhere. He had ripped the curtains from the wall in this room too, revealing two dark, empty windows that made me realize, on top of everything, it was dark outside.

Was I alone? At night?

See, I had heard the stories of the monsters who lived in the dark. If those monsters were worse than my parents, I never wanted to run across them.

I couldn't find a path to the kitchen and had to go back around. I moved a little quicker now. I was still petrified of my father, but the idea of being alone at night was causing an uncontrollable fear to rise in my throat.

Where was Mom?

I walked through her room. She wasn't there. I walked into the kitchen.

My child mind could not grasp what I was seeing, and I started whimpering.

Every cabinet door was either ripped off or hanging by a corner. Every drawer had been pulled out and lay in the middle of the kitchen, some broken, some still intact. Their contents lay scattered on the floor: glasses, plates, cups, bowls, pots, pans, silverware, the canisters from the countertop, spices, sugar, flour, pasta, bread, cereal.

Most shocking of all was the refrigerator lying open and face down on the floor. A puddle of fluid was creeping out from under it like it was bleeding.

I took a step backward. Then another. My father did this...because of me...and he could do this...to me.

Overwhelmed and not knowing what else to do, I ran back to my bedroom and crawled under the bed.

I knew it wouldn't keep me safe. My dad could destroy rooms, but it felt safe for now.

I had no concept of time, but to me, a very long time had passed, and it was dark., I knew I needed to stay alert, but I was exhausted, and it was probably past my bedtime.

I fell asleep.

(to be continued)