I think the best advice for writers is write about what you know, and in your case obviously abuse is not it. Let me help you.
It's 3 O'clock all right but not a.m., it's p.m. and you sit in your chair watching the clock tick off the last fifteen minutes before the buses will take you back, there. You miss the announcement the teacher just gave, and the sound of your rowdy, restless classmates only serves to heighten the mounting sense of dread.
What will happen today? Will your drunken father hurl you from your rooftop because you are eight and can't tell the difference between adjustable pliers and standard pliers? Will he drag your little brother out into the yard for no reason you can comprehend, tie him to the ground and beat him with a belt until he bleeds? Will he beat you again the way he did last week so long and so hard he has to send your siblings for a refreshing glass of tea to cool himself off?
Maybe he'll use some stupid excuse to banish you from your bed, sending you to sleep in the hayloft instead. Maybe he'll tell neighbors weeks before he does this that he has a coyote problem, and then maybe when it finally is 3am he'll sneak out the back door and fire into the side of your barn where you are sleeping at the imaginary coyotes no one else has ever seen?
Then again, maybe he's not home. I suppose you think that might be good, but you know otherwise. You know every minute he is not home he's out pouring a sixty thousand dollar a year paycheck into little brown bottles, and it won't be long before it occurs to him that it's all your fault.
Your fault he can't be a lawyer, your fault his daddy did not love him, your fault he's stuck with a family , a job and a life he never really wanted. It's your fault he's an alcoholic, it's your fault he beats you, and man are you going to pay. You are going to pay because no one is going to stop him, or even believe that such a great guy could ever do anything remotely like this. But mostly you are going to pay because he is a weak scared little man who needs to beat his family to feel like a man.
Key in the lock? Forget that man you better not lock his door! No surprise at the door for you, because you and everyone else in the house have been on high alert since early evening and everyone scrambles instantly to 'battle' positions the second his headlights come tearing down the driveway.
Then there is that eerie second of divination that seems to last a lifetime and hangs in the air like a eerie morning fog over the countryside. Will he be drunk? Will he be sober and mad anyway? Maybe, just maybe he'll come home take off his boots and sit down quietly before going to sleep, maybe. But it only lasts a second and then the door slams open, and all hell breaks loose!
He does not do a cinematic open handed slap, he grabs your mother, or your brother, or you and with his fists proceeds to beat you down where you stand. He straddles her on the kitchen floor and beats her like a school yard thug, pounding on her back in while she wails in pain. Then he leaves her on the floor, a beaten frightened mess, and now it's your turn.
You, because he knows you hate him, because you are smart enough to try and escape this wretched hellhole, and because he knows what you would do to him if you ever got the opportunity. And so with his boots he stomps you into the floor, "Run you piece of shit! you think you are smart?!, I'll kill you, you son of a bitch you fuck with me I'll kill you! Just try and run, go ahead I'll fucking bury you!"
Yeah, you are way off base my friend. But your inane 'Hollywood' depiction of abuse is not what pisses me off. What pisses me off is that you would liken me to a woman that allowed her children to experience this hell and never got the courage to leave.
Libertarians are not apathetic victims. They are not lamely hoping that despite the abuse things will get better, they are fighting back. Maybe they have been fooled in the past, perhaps that is true, but if it's true they quickly figure out who is real and who is not and they take steps to correct their voting habits to reflect what they have learned.
As for me, I left home when I was fifteen, and I sure as hell ain't nobody's victim, so save the drama for Hollywood.
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