The Death of My Stepfather

A rowdy child I was in my adolescence, filled of rage resulting in hectics.

 I hissed and threw fits that were ended by my stepfather’s fists, slurring his words that I will like to omitt.

Enter now without a heart so frail as I begin the introduction of a sinsiter tale. A tale of the night in which a death was compelled. 

Stumbling about my stepfather was with the clock a quarter to nine. As he rumbled into the living room, he could barely walk a straight line. 

I watched the screen that filled me with joy, the same cartoons in which I owned the toys.

 I sang the tunes that commenced the show, that was until I was threatened with a blow. 

“Clammer down,” my stepdad said. “Clammer down or I’ll have your head.” 

I knew the intention he gave was malice, but that day was the day I stood to his challenge. 

I ran to the kitchen and climbed on a stool, I reached around and felt steelen wool.

I moved about once more until a handle I felt, the tool in which his faith was to be dealt.

I met him at once and yet he was not aware, I believe he knew the implications by my look and stare.

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