Daddy

I vaguely remember a father. One that screamed, yelled, cursed. Flung bottles around, here and there. Knocked around furniture. Knocked around momma, like furniture. But sometimes he was nice. He’d give me toys. Candy, chocolate, a Kite. One day he never came back. “Momma?” I puzzled, I was only seven. My mother still loved me then. She tried to change. Tried. Not really. But she was better. ‘Momma?” I tried again. This time she looked up from the table. Tears streaming her face, Like rivers of pain. “Where’s daddy?” I asked. Shy. “He’s dead! Dead! God took him from me! Not that he was any good… But he was all I had! Your daddy’s dead!” She screamed. That was when, Her hate for me, Really began.