Watching Slow Torture
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree of Truth.
Sometimes Â I Â really Â hate Â him. Â This Â is Â one Â of Â those times.
That became obvious within the first 10 minutes in his presence again.
I canâ€™t bear the extreme cruelty, the manipulation, the constant reminders that he is dying and that I should be the dutiful Â daughter by Â his side and at the same Â time, turning up the TV so loud that he drowns out my voice in conversation. My throat is sore from trying to talk over his TV. He lets me know that the inane crap on TV is more important than anything I have to say. He makes sure I canâ€™t get a momentâ€™s peace to talk with my mama. Or more importantly, that she canâ€™t get a moment to talk with me.
I canâ€™t just witness what heâ€™s doing to her without saying something. I talk back. He canâ€™t beat me now for talking back. Heâ€™s Â weak. I could knock him over with little more than a look.
I canâ€™t rein in my anger at his desperate and torturous attempts Â to Â controlÂ Â everythingÂ Â and Â everyoneÂ Â in Â his sightâ€”and out of it. And that he does, and what itâ€™s doing to them. He is a tyrant. Bedridden and housebound, but heâ€™s always been a tyrant and always will be.
Walk away, I tell her. But she wonâ€™t. Sheâ€™ll crawl to her grave but still be his servant.
But I can walk away. Come daybreak, I will.
Tonight, I want to run away, to get out in the dark and the rain and sink my feet into the grass and become one with the Earth and regain my tranquility. But I donâ€™t.
Instead, I keep thinking how much Iâ€™d like to break a chair over his head right now.
I wonâ€™t, of course. But.
I. Want. To.