Childhood has killed all the faith I may have had in my own immortality The house I grew up in was a dead-end ranch in an anonymous stretch of the suburbs. Inside, the walls were yellow and smoky, covered with disease and nicotine instead of sunshine. Death hung in the air along with cigar smoke and tension. My father smoked green Optimo cigars and drank Scotch. He drank everything. He could tell you he loved you, and in an instant turn your warm tears to blood.My father hated life and, being his son, I was on the receiving end of his emotions on a daily basis. He was my first model of perfection, strange as that may seem. The alcoholism that developed in my teenage years and the self-destructive death-trip that followed was a result of his abuse. Had I been taught early on to value myself, it would've saved years (and pages) of pain. Sadly, this was not the case. My father would reduce me to a walking void not long after my first conscious memory, a hole that could take a lifetime to fill (maybe, if I'm lucky).-From Sunday Morning
About Daniel Dermond
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Published August 24, 2003
Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure.