“You know your mother is going to divorce me, don’t you, Austin?”

“Yes Dad,” I replied weakly.

But do I really? Do I really know what hell I’m about to enter? The answer is no. Divorce is just a big, evil word that my 10-year old brain just couldn’t digest, especially coming out of a drunken father’s mouth.

‘I’m just the victim here, son,” he slurred, “You, Christa and your mother have backed me into a corner like an animal and now I have to lash out. I have to fight back.”

With that he glared over at me from the driver’s seat; his eyes seemed foggy and distant, yet they were so close, so intimidating at the same time. Unexpectedly, he momentarily lost control of the car, sending us off the road and up onto the curb.

“Stop!” I screamed, tears now flowing down my face; the floodgates had been opened. My head lay in my hands, my brain not functioning.

“Oh shut up!” he replied, proving he could yell much louder than me, a deep cruel rage from within escaping his lips. And suddenly, the big SUV came back onto the street with a thud, inside the white lines once again.

“Don’t you understand?! Your mother is going to leave me!” he screeched, his breath reeking of alcohol.

But I didn’t understand; I wasn’t sure that I ever would. So I sat in silence, thoughts still racing through my developing mind. I struggled. Using all my strength, I tried to wake from this awful nightmare, this reoccurring dream that had become my reality. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. Whether I liked it or not, I was connected to this moment for eternity. I would try to break out of these shackles that confined me, these restraints that let the darkness surround me. But I wouldn’t. All my worst fears, everything he said on the black, cold night, would come to pass.