Wound

By Talfourd Wharton

 

            As a young child we envision our fathers as someone of godly status. We see them as tall, kind, fun figures, who always have time for basketball in the driveway and fishing in the pond. In our innocent eyes the father is someone who wouldn’t harm a fly, at least not in front of us. As an eight-year-old, I thought my dad was the man. I’m not saying he isn’t the man now, but back in the day I literally thought my dad was close to perfect. I looked up to him in awe.

            We have a cat named Elvis, who is a bit bi-polar.  My little sister Emma, who was a curious 3 year old at the time, was trying to play with Elvis, and she grabbed his tail. Elvis lashed out at Emma and bit her little legs as she ran around the room yelling for help.  Emma’s curious giggles soon changed to frightened screams. With a choked and raspy voice, she told my parents what had just happened. What really caught my attention, other than the red scratches all over her chubby body, was my dad’s reaction. A look of extreme worry passed his face as he quickly began to turn bright red in anger. He ran to the scene of the crime, picked up Elvis, and threw him into the garage. Elvis hit the wall with a hard thud and landed in a recycling bin full of cans. My dad slammed the door and went back to tend to my frightened little sister. Immediately, I became very scared. I had never seen this savage side of my dad before. I ran away to my room with fresh tears streaming down my cheeks.

            Elvis, to me, was one of the family, so I was afraid of the brutality in the action. The idea of my dad throwing me out the garage door and into a bin of cans was terrifying. My dad soon realized that he had scared me and got me to calm down when he told me that his love for his children was what drove the attack on Elvis. The thought soothed me and justified his action, but in the moment, I felt a large emotional pain, one of betrayal from the perfect person that, in my mind, was my dad.