Angry Man

"Clean this shit up," My father spat at me, his voice slurred by the bottle of beer sloshing in his hand. His bloodshot eyes bore into mine, reflecting a twisted mix of anger and disappointment. Those eyes—painfully familiar yet hauntingly foreign—mocked me from every mirror in the house.

The shattered glass glistened on the tile floor, remnants of a bottle he had hurled at me in a fit of rage. It was my responsibility to clean up his mess, just as it always had been. I shot a resentful glance at his slumped figure in the living room chair before grabbing the broom. Sweeping up the fragments, I clenched my jaw with each sharp clink of glass meeting the dustpan.

The holes in my bedroom wall bore testament to my own outbursts, echoes of his anger mirrored in my every gesture and grimace. It wasn't just his broad nose and deep-set eyes that marked me as his son; it was the fury that simmered beneath my skin, a legacy I never asked for. Why must I carry his arrogance and his rage, sentenced to a lifetime of inheriting traits that only served to alienate me further?

Did he recognize himself in me, I wondered? Did he despise me for reflecting back the very traits he loathed in himself? Perhaps he smirked knowingly whenever my brow furrowed in frustration, seeing his own features twisted into an expression of disdain upon my face.

Examining my bruised knuckles, adorned with scabbed-over wounds that mirrored his own, I couldn't escape the realization: this house was on fire, ignited by his temper, and fueled by my resentment. We were both at fault for reducing our home to ashes.

And then there was my mother—the fleeting image of freedom captured in a photograph on my nightstand. Her escape, swift and final, mocked me silently. It was as though she dared me to follow, leaving me trapped with a man whose fury overshadowed any semblance of familial affection. Did she leave me behind intentionally, recognizing in me the same fears and heartache she herself had endured?

I remembered the day she left vividly. Her packed bags by the door, her eyes avoiding mine as she whispered apologies that tasted of bitterness. "I can't do this anymore," she had said, her voice cracking with the weight of years spent in a marriage drowning in discontentment. The slam of the door echoed through the house, leaving behind a silence that suffocated me.

Both parents, I was certain, resented me for embodying their worst traits—a flawed fusion of their shortcomings and insecurities. My mother's departure marked the beginning of a relentless battle between my father and me, two lone soldiers in a war of attrition within our own home.

I called my mother on my 21st birthday, desperate for guidance, craving the solace only a mother could offer. Instead, we exchanged talk about the weather, avoiding the deeper currents that threatened to drown us both.

"Loving me will never be easy," I admitted bitterly to myself. My anger was a down pouring rain, flooding the gardens of those who dared approach, leaving behind only broken stems and wilted flowers. I pitied those who lingered at my closed and scratched door, hoping in vain for a glimpse of the warmth I struggled to share.

In the mirror, I no longer saw a teenage boy navigating his personal hell, but a thirty-year-old man entangled in a cycle of resentment and self-loathing. Memories of a childhood marred by his cruelty ignited a fury that consumed me—a rage directed not only at him for his abuse but also at myself for allowing it to define me.

My home now mirrored my internal chaos: empty bottles of Jack littered the countertops, picture frames hung askew with faces of those who had abandoned me—whom I had driven away. In the living room, a solitary chair occupied the center stage, its worn leather and makeshift TV tray a testament to evenings spent drowning in bitterness. The half-empty beer bottle beckoned at me, its condensation mirroring the tears I refused to shed all those years ago.

Did my father take pride in creating another angry man? Did he measure his success by the legacy of resentment he passed down to me, ensuring his own misery lived on in my veins?

What was that saying again? Ah yes, 'If you grew up with an angry man in the house, then there will always be an angry man in the house.'

The years passed, marked by strained conversations and simmering resentment between my father and me. His presence loomed large, a constant reminder of the bitter past that bound us together. I often found myself retreating into memories of my mother—her gentle touch, her soothing voice—as a refuge from the storm raging within our home.

Her absence was a void that grew with each passing day, leaving me to navigate the emotional minefield of adolescence and adulthood alone. I wondered if she knew the extent of my suffering, if she regretted leaving me to fend for myself against a father whose love was nothing better then harsh words and clenched fists.

The photographs on my nightstand became relics of a distant past, capturing fleeting moments of happiness before they were shattered by my father's rage. I traced the outlines of her face with trembling fingers, yearning for the warmth of her embrace that had long since faded into memory.

As I grew older, I realized the parallels between my father's treatment of me and his treatment of my mother. I saw her reflected in my defiance, in the way I refused to let his anger define me. I vowed never to become the man he was, to break free from the cycle of abuse that had plagued our family for generations.

Yet, despite my best efforts, traces of him lingered in the hardened lines of my face, in the sharpness of my voice when provoked. The legacy of pain and resentment was a heavy burden to bear, a chain that bound me to a past I oh so wanted to escape and forget forever.

In moments of solitude, I grappled with the question of forgiveness—of whether I could ever forgive my father for the scars he had inflicted upon my heart and soul. I searched for solace in therapy sessions and self-help books, seeking to unravel the tangled webs of emotions that had shaped my identity.

But forgiveness remained elusive, a distant shore on an endless sea of turmoil. I realized that healing would be a lifelong journey, a gradual unravelling of wounds that ran deeper than I dared to admit.

As I stood before the mirror, confronting my reflection with unflinching honesty, I saw not just the echoes of my father's rage but also the resilience that had carried me through the darkest of times. I saw a fighter—a testament to the unyielding spirit that refused to be broken by the storms of the past.

And somewhere, in the depths of my soul, I held onto the faint hope that one day, I would find the courage to forgive—not for his sake, but for mine. For forgiveness, I knew, would be the key to unlocking the chains that bound me to a legacy of pain and resentment. The legacy that the angry man that raised me had bestowed upon me.