I should have hit.

Okay, here is a story many of you may have heard already, I will tell it as true as I can remember and try to throw in any details I can. I am tempted to rush through it and get it done. This is a story of defeat, fear, perhaps weakness, for which I find strength courage and some triumph in the telling. Perhaps I can throw in a ficticious ending to make it more exciting we will see. Many details I do not remember, the event took place in my latter days in the hell I refer to as Spring, TX. I can't say what time of year or what much else other then I remember I had just come home, and I came in throught the back door through the kitchen, and was heading towards the stairs to go to my room. I don't know what it was that my father said, or who else was in the house at the time, I only remember me and him, but now that I think about it I am sure others where there because, I had grabbed a piece of cherry pie to take with me to my room. Whatever it was that he said my response was 'asshole' , that was the word I spoke as I headed up the stairs toward my room. Next I remember he came up the stairs after me, he was angered by my show of disrespect, a disrespect that I had felt for some time, a contempt even for this man. I hated him. What I remember next is that I had enought time to place the cherry pie on a wooden desk chair, the old style school room desk chair combo, that sat next to the corner of my bed. When he made his way up the stair I was standing in my door way inside my room, him in the door way just outside my room. We stood face to face, I cannot say what words where spoken, but I remember that fists where raised. Eye to eye, each with a raise fist ready to strike, I remember the struggle that I felt, the interal questioning, can I hit this man, he's my father, that would he hit me. I could not, was it fear, was is some semblence of respect that I say I didn't have, a weakness, cowardice. It seems like we stood in this position for quite some time. And then it happened, he punched me, I was across the room and on that chair, covered in that pie. I could not believe it. To this day I my collar bone is still a bit out of place, from this incident, it must have hit the chair when I fell. This wound is a reminder, a scar that may carry with me for some time. I have thought much about how many times I backed down, avoided confrontations such as these. How much of my contetions towards this man sprung from wanting to defend myself, my mother, my siblings from the violence of this man. I have some understanding of what it take for someone to live like this with such self loathing, fear and insecurity that he must compensate with violence, and I do everything in my power not to be that man. So maybe the answer is not that I should have hit, maybe I was the stronger one for not doing so. Who can say.