Father Knows Best, Apparently
I walked up the herringboned, brick-paved street. It was 6 pm and the town was nearly deserted. But as I passed by the shuttered and barred shops the furious bellow of a man in his early-thirties resounded along the walkway. I turned to observe the possessor of such a dramatic and lordly foghorn. He was with two little girls; one daughter was about five and the other around seven years of age; each girl was in possession of a pink tricycle and a silver bicycle, respectively.
"Look at me, Yolanda!" he roared, his face inches away from the child's, his anger completely subsuming him, to the point where he no longer cared that to the outside world he revealed himself to be a complete shit.
"You stupid little idiots! How dare you ride away like that?! I am so fucking furious with you both! I let you go a little way ahead and you fucking well charge off out of sight! You stupid fucking idiots! What were you fucking thinking? ... That's right! You weren't thinking. Not a thought in your stupid fucking heads, was there?" The smaller child began to cry. Father was having none of that.
"Shut up! Just fucking shut up!" he screamed, "Don't you dare cry, Shannon! I am so angry with you both. And when we get home I'm going to tell Mummy all about it! Oh, yes! I'm going to tell Mummy what you did! And Mummy is going to be fucking angry with you both, as well! Then we'll take your fucking bikes and throw them away in the rubbish bin. See how you like that, the pair of you!"
I continued my walk up the street and turned into a lane-way to get away from them. The sound of his gestapo-rant gradually faded as the sorry trio continued over the hill. A large seagull glided down and landed quite close, in front of me. Its cold, disdainful black eye looked through me with complete disregard. I thought of my own children when they were vey small. Their dear, sweet, smiling faces; their pudgy little arms wrapped around my neck; their touching eagerness to always please and to be good children. And I wondered what kind of twisted plough had torn through the young father's psychological landscape to make him think it was alright to speak to his babies like that. What kind of darkness had entered his psyche that demanded he cast the girls' mother in the role of a wicked witch. In what bleak forest were the girls doomed to lose their childhoods? Tears pricked my eyes as I wandered home.
"Look at me, Yolanda!" he roared, his face inches away from the child's, his anger completely subsuming him, to the point where he no longer cared that to the outside world he revealed himself to be a complete shit.
"You stupid little idiots! How dare you ride away like that?! I am so fucking furious with you both! I let you go a little way ahead and you fucking well charge off out of sight! You stupid fucking idiots! What were you fucking thinking? ... That's right! You weren't thinking. Not a thought in your stupid fucking heads, was there?" The smaller child began to cry. Father was having none of that.
"Shut up! Just fucking shut up!" he screamed, "Don't you dare cry, Shannon! I am so angry with you both. And when we get home I'm going to tell Mummy all about it! Oh, yes! I'm going to tell Mummy what you did! And Mummy is going to be fucking angry with you both, as well! Then we'll take your fucking bikes and throw them away in the rubbish bin. See how you like that, the pair of you!"
I continued my walk up the street and turned into a lane-way to get away from them. The sound of his gestapo-rant gradually faded as the sorry trio continued over the hill. A large seagull glided down and landed quite close, in front of me. Its cold, disdainful black eye looked through me with complete disregard. I thought of my own children when they were vey small. Their dear, sweet, smiling faces; their pudgy little arms wrapped around my neck; their touching eagerness to always please and to be good children. And I wondered what kind of twisted plough had torn through the young father's psychological landscape to make him think it was alright to speak to his babies like that. What kind of darkness had entered his psyche that demanded he cast the girls' mother in the role of a wicked witch. In what bleak forest were the girls doomed to lose their childhoods? Tears pricked my eyes as I wandered home.
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