This time.

Every day I think about them. Every single second that I’m not otherwise distracted, I see his smiling face, twisted with spite; eyes dead after selling his soul. I see her, loyal to him, casually ignoring her own dreams and her own son’s needs to appease her husband’s desperate sense of self. I can still feel the rage he exuded as he beat me and bore down on me with those hateful words, “You deserved it.” I can still feel my heart breaking over and over as I realised that this man, my father, would never care about me; would never celebrate my achievements or admit to all the pain he had caused. Every day, I re-live those moments and every day I feel his fury, storming inside me; threatening everyone I love and everything I have built up. The generational curse is mine now and in just two months time, when my wife gives birth, I’ll be faced with the difficult challenge of not passing it down to my own son.

I met her just two years ago, when I was at my lowest. She’s seen my drunken rages on too many occasions; seen me fall down and cry; seen me smash phones and punch walls. I’ve taken it out on her - borrowed my dad’s words in an attempt to make her feel as bad as I do. I’ve told her to leave, told her I don’t care about her. But she stayed. She calmed me down with loving words and tender touch or by pushing me down and shouting truths to my face. She knew what I needed and when and she was strong enough not to take my rage to heart. She knows who she is.

And yet, still I falter. I cannot stop drinking, no matter how hard I try. I can enjoy the brightest of days filled with music and laughter but just one little errant thought will bring the darkness crashing down and I subject my loving wife to the curse all over again.

So today upon waking, I made the choice again, to say goodbye to my parents forever.

I’ve done it before, several times. I’ve said goodbye civilly and I’ve said goodbye in anger. I’ve lived in various countries to get as far away as I could. It never works - they always follow me in my thoughts and I feel them in my very essence. I came back to them once in tears after a particularly bad day where I had lost both my job and my girlfriend. For a second time, my dad spoke those words, “you deserved it.” That sparked another year with no contact between us. Some times I have come back and they have welcomed me with open arms as if nothing had ever gone wrong. We catch up and talk of trivial things. It is nice for a short while but the anger always creeps in. They never apologised for the things they did, for the way they raised me. They still are not impressed by how far I have come and how hard I have worked. They never applauded my achievements of learning 3 languages and 7 musical instruments, of landing highly paid, respectable jobs and bravely contending foreign lands.

I am sick of it. I am done. They don’t deserve me and they don’t get to poison their grandchild.

Except… I blame them for not allowing me a relationship with my grandparents. What if my child blames me too? What if I am passing on the curse by trying to stop it?

I haven’t told them yet. Usually, I would message them on impulse and spill out all my hateful thoughts so that they would know that they have failed. But something stopped me this time. Thoughts of my wife. She is teaching me to stop and consider and besides, I’m going to be late for work.

So I get on with my day. I go to work and put on a happy face as I always do. I enjoy spending time with the children I teach and sharing jibes with my colleagues. I come home to a healthy, delicious dinner and an episode of Star Trek. I place my hand on my wife’s tummy to feel the baby kicking as she beams up at me with glistening eyes and we talk future plans, full of love and hope. I gather up my keys and my phone to head out to my second and third jobs - two half hour sets performing on stage at two different bars across town. I won’t stay out late tonight, I’m tired.

But it’s never that simple.

Of course I’ll have a drink - one drink is fine. But I’ve finished my first set and I’m being approached by a fellow musician with an extra beer which he hands to me. It would be rude to refuse.

I get to the second bar and the performances are running behind schedule.

“Here, have a beer on the house!” says the manager. It’s already open. Three drinks is fine - I’ll still go home early.

The new guy playing on stage is AMAZING! His hands are flying over that piano with incredible speed and grace. I hope he hangs around for a bit, I’d love to play with him. After my set he comes up to me and compliments my playing - I have to buy him a drink, it would be rude not to.

It’s 3am. The piano guy has gone for a piss so I glance down at my phone. The missus has messaged me twice,

12am - “I hope you’re having a nice time darling. Come home soon!”

2am - “Are you OK? Come on home, you have work tomorrow.”

Oops! I message back,

“Sorry! I met this incredible guy. I’ll be home soon!”

I put the phone back in my pocket and start to get up. The piano player is heading towards me with a couple more drinks and a big smile…

4am. The bar is closing now. I think I stayed out too late. I’ve let the wife down again. It’s my dads fault…

4.45am. I let myself in to the flat. The wife’s awake. She’s always awake until I’m home. I feel a rush of shame and spite. She’s pathetic - how can she love someone like me? I’m a failure. I try to tread lightly.

“Alright my love?” I say, “Sorry I’m late. Don’t worry, I’ll get up for work tomorrow - everything’s fine.” I smile.

She smiles. “OK my darling. I’m glad you had fun. You can catch up on sleep tomorrow night.”

I reply. I’m not sure what with - my head’s a little fuzzy. I’m not sure what she’s saying either. I’ll make a guess… Nope - I don’t think that was right. She seems to be getting annoyed. What has she got to be annoyed about? Her dad didn’t beat her! I tell her so. She’s telling me that’s enough now - to go to sleep. I tell her to f-off - go sleep in the other room. So she does.

It’s all my dad’s fault.

I take out my laptop. That’s it. I can’t let him get away with ruining my life like this. He made me what I am with his endless need to feel admired, his constant competitiveness against his own son, his lies, his spite, his lack of attention, his cold eyes and his evil sneer; his drinking; his fists.

I write everything - how lost and empty I feel and how it’s all his fault. I tell him how evil and pathetic he is - how he doesn’t deserve mum and how he’ll die, alone and afraid. When I am done, I send the message and block him. That’s it this time, I swear. I feel a bit better. It’s nearly 6am and I have to get up for work in an hour. I probably won’t. Whatever. This time, it is done.