Dry Tears
I have never met someone so immature in my life. The monster underneath our roof severely needs help. The definition of a father, a Christian, a friend, a coach, and a normal human being does not apply to that man. He is a child, and at the same time, I am his child.
This isn’t the way that things should be.
One of the most horrific memories I have of this man was him shouting at my own grandmother. Prior to this, she would always tell me that she had no tears left because of the death of her own son. Her son died over 45 years ago. Little did she know her tear ducts would overflow again by a person she granted a blessing to. This was an act of failed defense. I could remember hearing his enormous and disgusting voice scold her for something that did not mean anything to me. Despite the events, he did not care or change to this day. His revolting attitude made a fragile eighty-three-year-old cry, she most likely had not felt tears roll out of her eyes for more than those 45 years. A devil, a person we should be ignoring and not giving in to his temptation, is tempting her to cry—he won, and his temptation worked. A repulsive piece of work he calls triumph, the only thing that he ever wins is making women upset and cry.
He believes that he is the sole of a shoe and I am the ground: trampled, crumbled, helpless, and hurt. I cry for help but one soul comes to my aid but questions me for my mistakes later. The ones who you thought were on your side, you protected, were not actually who you thought they were. They tell you that they love you and that they care, but you know it is just a mask of comfort that they wear. At the end of the day, I realize that I truly cannot trust anyone, but only “the one with the halo.” Sometimes I wonder if even “the one with the halo” would be able to help him—or if he’s just a lost cause.
Edited by Madison Case.
