Mother was out.
Nobody there to nurse my bloodied foot.
Concealing it with a grimace and a cushion,
I eyed him warily.
Sitting next to me,
Lips smacking between gulps of whisky.
His eyes missed nothing but a flicker on the screen.
His sideways glance of piercing ice took in my discomfort
And I couldn't lie to him.
He asked, I told him. Just like that.
"Trodden on some glass Dad."
Showing him my foot with a wild animal's wariness
Wasn't protection enough.
Giving me a sip from his glass,
I spluttered a child's disgust at ten year-old malt.
Worse was the iron hand that grabbed my ankle,
Yanking me upside down,pouring more from the glass.
As the foul liquid washed the blood from my foot
I screamed,thrashing wildly 'til on the floor.
Still keeping a tight grip until my sobbing subsided,
He told me I wasn't behaving like a man.
At seven years old it never occurred to me
To feel anything but shame.
