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mom for the second time. I can’t recall the details of it, because now it’s muddled with all the
other times that came after it. I do remember that the police were called. They came out to
the house this time, but again it was like a boys’ club. “Hey, guys. These women, you know
how they are.” No report was made. No charges were filed.
Whenever he’d hit her or come after me, my mom would find me crying afterward and
take me aside. She’d give me the same talk every time.
“Pray for Abel,” she’d say. “Because he doesn’t hate us. He hates himself.”
To a kid this makes no sense. “Well, if he hates himself,” I’d say, “why doesn’t he kick
himself?”
Abel was one of those drinkers where once he was gone you’d look into his eyes and you
didn’t even see the same person. I remember one night he came home fuckdrunk, stumbling
through the house. He stumbled into my room, muttering to himself, and I woke up to see
him whip out his dick and start pissing on the floor. He thought he was in the bathroom.
That’s how drunk he would get—he wouldn’t know which room in the house he was in. There
were so many nights he would stumble into my room thinking it was his and kick me out of
bed and pass out. I’d yell at him, but it was like talking to a zombie. I’d go sleep on the couch.
He’d get wasted with his crew in the backyard every evening after work, and many nights
he’d end up fighting with one of them. Someone would say something Abel didn’t like, and
he’d beat the shit out of him. The guy wouldn’t show up for work Tuesday or Wednesday, but
then by Thursday he’d be back because he needed the job. Every few weeks it was the same
story, like clockwork.
Abel kicked the dogs, too. Fufi, mostly. Panther was smart enough to stay away, but
dumb, lovable Fufi was forever trying to be Abel’s friend. She’d cross his path or be in his way
when he’d had a few, and he’d give her the boot. After that she’d go and hide somewhere for a
while. Fufi getting kicked was always the warning sign that shit was about to go down. The
dogs and the workers in the yard often got the first taste of his anger, and that would let the
rest of us know to lie low. I’d usually go find Fufi wherever she was hiding and be with her.
The strange thing was that when Fufi got kicked she never yelped or cried. When the vet
diagnosed her as deaf, he also found out she had some condition where she didn’t have a fully
developed sense of touch. She didn’t feel pain. Which was why she would always start over
with Abel like it was a new day. He’d kick her, she’d hide, then she’d be right back the next
morning, wagging her tail. “Hey. I’m here. I’ll give you another chance.”
And he always got the second chance. The Abel who was likable and charming never
went away. He had a drinking problem, but he was a nice guy. We had a family. Growing up
in a home of abuse, you struggle with the notion that you can love a person you hate, or hate
a person you love. It’s a strange feeling. You want to live in a world where someone is good or
bad, where you either hate them or love them, but that’s not how people are.
There was an undercurrent of terror that ran through the house, but the actual beatings
themselves were not that frequent. I think if they had been, the situation would have ended
sooner. Ironically, the good times in between were what allowed it to drag out and escalate as
far as it did. He hit my mom once, then the next time was three years later, and it was just a
little bit worse. Then it was two years later, and it was just a little bit worse. Then it was a
year later, and it was just a little bit worse. It was sporadic enough to where you’d think it