The Stranger Within

He lost his temper with a violent curse followed by a stream of profanity and a beer can pitched in my general direction. His face was twisted with rage, an ugly mask of fury, intoxication and guilt. Shouting and with one hand curled into a fist he came at me and I reached for a kitchen knife without really thinking.

He stopped, realizing, I think before I did, that I might actually use it, that I was able and willing to strike at him if need be. From the depths of the stranger within me, I spit at him, defied him and dared him. He roared at me and abruptly slammed out the back door, pausing only long enough to overturn the breakfast table and throw a chair through the kitchen window. Wood splintered with a ragged, tearing sound and shattered glass flew everywhere. The cats fled in terror and the dogs bolted for the safety of the second floor while I tried to steady my breathing and slow the rush of sick panic I felt in my chest. The unreal sight of the carving knife in my shaking hands brought me back and though my first instinct was to drop it like a hot rock, I held on and forced my hands to be still. It was like waking suddenly from a nightmare - confused and unsure of what was real and what was not, all was silent and in pristine perspective, a slight breeze from the jagged window stirred what was left of the curtains. There was reality to be dealt with - a window to be repaired and glass to be swept up, animals to be reassured and comforted, another night's refuge to be found and another morning after to be faced.

I felt an odd kind of empathy for my daddy that night and a conflicted kind of pride for not being so much like him.
He never would've behaved the way I had, never would've taken the risk of defiance and rage, and probably would've slept better not having lowered himself to the level of a dangerously angry drunk. He would've kept his silence and let it wash over him harmlessly, It's just noise, he would tell me repeatedly, Just noise and it can't do any harm. He never admitted the harm was already done. I'd wanted to be like him for as long as I could remember and coming to see him as deeply flawed, as deeply wounded as he was, was wrenching. He had chosen his path and kept to it for better or worse and knowing that I couldn't follow his example was in some ways liberating and in others, shameful. I hated the man I had married when I should've hated his disease. I often wondered how things might've been if my daddy and I had been able to talk about my mother's drinking and been honest with each other. I often wondered where his stranger within was hiding.