text: Chloe Knox Betrayed: Wife v.s. Daughter Life of a Forgiver? ...not really 
   
   
   Walking Down Memory Lane  
   
  “I hate you!” 
  This sentence, in my young teenage years, I used a lot! Like, every other day, a lot! This sentence was usually—actually always and only—directed toward my parents. I’d always scream those three horrid words, for the stupidest reasons too. I would mumble it under my breath because my mother told me to do the dishes. I would growl it into my pillow because my father said I couldn’t date the guy with the tattoos, piercings, and motorcycle. I would trash my room, kick the walls, and shriek in their faces those three atrocious words all because I was a spoiled kid. My parents no matter what I said or did did their best to give me my every desire, grant my every wish! I was too arrogant to see that all the curfews and the punishments were because they loved me and just wanted me to be happy and safe…or did they? 
  Out of all the hundreds of times I’ve said that ghastly sentence, there’s only one time that I ever truly meant it…at least I think I did! To this day, I’m still not sure! But the one day I wanted to show how I felt, all the real venom on my lips and spats of hatred on my tongue, I was too scared to. I was angry, but I felt this black pit of nothingness in the cavity of my gut and it seemed to paralyze me. That one day I can remember more clearly than any happy memory.  
  I remember it more than my first kiss, or my first love, or anything that you’re supposed to have imprinted into your mind. 
  I remember the faint sweet smell of pot coming from my father’s and step-mother’s bed room. I remember how my three little sisters, Claire, Carly, and, Carmine, were sitting on the floor of the trailer’s living room watching ‘SpongeBob Squarepants’! I remember everything from the color of the trailer walls, to the sound of the harsh winter wind as it thrashed the screen door back and forth. No one ever bothered to just close the damn thing. 
   The only thing I can’t seem to remember about that day is how everything started. 
  When I was a young teen, me and my step-mother fought non-stop. It was so bad to the point where you could feel the tension in the air. So bad, that my oldest sister, Carmine, said that there were days were she’d feel choked by the apprehension…figuratively of course!  
  And just like every other day in that stress filled trailer, I remember waking up and for no reason at all feeling pissed at the world. I felt alone and uncared for, and then my step-mother woke up. She complained and complained to my father like she always did, but today everyone was on edge. Usually it was me versus my step-mother! Today my father was in the equation and he was forced to pick a side…he chose wrong! At least that’s what I think! 
  It was around noon, and my step-mother had gotten mad at my father for something, which I’m not sure of! There were cusses and the slamming of doors! Claire and Carly were crying! Carmine embraced them and whispered words of kindness in their two and five year old ears! Me? I was fed up! 
  I was tired of the way my “mother” treated my father, and I wasn’t going to stand for this any longer! She had to realize what she was doing to me, my sisters, and my father! She was ripping apart our family—my family!!!! 
  “You better drop your attitude, or I’ll drop it for ya’!” 
  What I did then was very disrespectful, but at the time I wasn’t thinking about that. When I was thirteen, I rarely thought about anyone but myself! 
  So I laughed! I flat out looked into my step-mother’s brown eyes and laughed. Her eyes went black with hurt, and then anger, but I didn’t care. I didn’t because I knew she couldn’t do anything about it despite her threats. If she ever so much as laid a finger on me, my mother would whoop my step-mother like there was no tomorrow. And my father? He’d have to take my side! I was fighting for him! I was defending him! 
  …I was wrong… 
  My step-mother ran off into her bedroom, tears rolling down her face, as I walked into the bathroom. I locked the door, and began to undress to take a shower as if nothing had happened. 
  But just as I was about to take off my shirt I heard the loud BOOM! BOOM! BOOM, of my father’s footsteps. The small three bedroom trailer shook, just as my heart began to speed up. Knots formed in the pit of my stomach as the blood rushed to my head.  
  I didn’t understand why, but my father was mad! I could tell that much just by the loud breathing I heard on the other side of the door! 
  One, two, after three bangs on the door, my father stormed into the bathroom. His brown eyes were black with anger and disgust, and his lips that usually smiled were now a clenched frown of hatred that immediately made me cower in fear. 
  Never once had my father hit me, or yelled at me before, but just that horrid look in his eyes was—and still is—enough to make my legs feel like jell-o and my body uncontrollably tremble. 
  I opened my mouth to speak, but there was no excuse for what I had done; no good reason, anyway. Was my “mother” in the wrong? Yes, but so was I. That much was evident when my father grasped my throat with his right thick and callused hand and slammed me against the wall. He pinned me there against the wall, the grip on my neck growing tighter and tighter. I coughed and gasped for air, not because he was choking me, though. He held me tight and still, and it hurt. I could feel his thick nails digging into my skin.  What made me strangle was the thick aroma of smoke from the two packs of cigarettes he’d smoke a day and another faint smell, which even though was sweet made me feel nauseas…pot!   
  His face only inches from mine growled words which I didn’t hear.  I was too scared by my father’s soulless and cold black eyes that bore into mine, like a predator looking down at his pathetic and helpless prey…that’s how I felt.  
   I was pinned to the wall with no room for escape.  
  A long plump dirty finger, that showed evidence of rough labor, aggressively jabbed my shoulders and waved in front of my face as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed. 
  Ten minutes later I sit on my bed crying. My music’s cranked up so no one will hear me, so I can be left alone. And I am, for a bit, but then in walks my father.  
  His eyes are outlined in red and are puffy. They’re back to their normal chocolate and soft brown, but they’re also glassy. He looks like a lost puppy full of sadness and want, but I still don’t see him. I no longer see the man that I said I’d love no matter what! I no longer see the man that cried when telling me Santa Clause wasn’t real, or the man that bought me my first Tigger(as in Whinnie the Pooh) footie pajamas! He was no longer the man that I had thought I could always count on! He, now, was just a pathetic, irresponsible, pot user that verbally abused his wife. I no longer loved him—at least that’s what I had told myself—and I no longer pitied his hard teenage years!  Even as he stood there tears streaming down his face saying, “I’m sorry,” I couldn’t forgive him. 
   It was innate. He took one step toward me, and I scooted backward on my bed in the opposite direction! 
  After a moment of trying, my father gave up, and walked out of the room as I thought—I didn’t yell, didn’t mumble under my breath, I just thought, I HATE YOU! 
  Now, I know that my story could be way worse, I know. But still, to be betrayed by the one man I thought would be there for me through thick and thin hurt more than any physical pain I’ve ever in my life experienced, and worse than any heartbreak! He had chosen my step-mother over me, even when I was the one to stand up for him! How could he do that to me?  
  And so when I think back on that day, I wonder…did I fully mean it? No! When I was younger all my feelings were over whelming and confusing. As I get older I learn, and I now know that I don’t hate my father. I’ll love him no matter what. It was what he did that I hated. I hated the fact that he didn’t have the guts to stand up for his own daughter. I hated the fact that he couldn’t see that what I had done was for him. I hated that he had hurt me, emotionally and physically! 
  …but even though I love him, and even though I’ve told him that I’ve forgiven him, I haven’t…it hurts too much…it hurts too much to not be able to look at him and see the man that I had when I was a little, little girl…I hope that’ll change! I hope one day I’ll be able to look at him and say that I love him without any hesitation…I can only hope…but I don’t think that day will ever come…  
   
   
   Publication Date: May 7th 2012 https://www.bookrix.com/-chloeknox18