Justin Hoffman

My name is Justin Hoffmann. This is my story.1

I remember the first time it had happened. I was eight. I was lying in the basement, fuming about something my mother had done. I was counting the tiles on the ceiling. I was at the number 83, 3 less than the total of what was there.   Why is this important you ask?     It is important because that was the time that my drunken father decided to come into my room. He had been drunk before, and I never particularly liked being around him while he was.   He started to come down the stairs, mumbling to himself the whole time; I remember the fear that ran down my spine, just hearing a few words that he said, they acted like electricity, shocking me and causing me to just sit there in the style of a deer in headlights.   He stumbled down the steps last few steps and never once looked me in the eyes. He slowly somehow managed to get his feet to carry himself in front of me. I could smell the putrid stench of alcohol that engulfed him, and it was strong enough to bring tears to my eyes. Whether that was purely from the alcohol, I still ask myself.   That was the moment in time that he did look me in the eyes, and it was also when I knew what was going to happen.   I looked into his bloodshot eyes, and who stared back at me wasn’t my father. His eyes were deep, but there was no one there, they were cold, colder than any natural cold I have ever felt. They were hating. He looked at me with those terrible, fearsome eyes and he started to speak. Slowly, illegibly maybe, but speech all the same .2

“You’ve gived me nothin’ but bad. I’m goin’ to show you what it is to feel like to have bad bein' on you,” he said, not proper English, and a bit hard to understand, but putting myself back in that position, I knew exactly what he was saying.   I was scared though, the electric shock still seemed to have me paralyzed, I knew what was going to happen, but I couldn’t move and I couldn’t hide. He stumbled back up the stairs, with me knowing that his intent was for him to come back down in a few moments. The moments felt like years, the seconds slowly ticking by slower than a heart beat, leaving me to shake in fear and suspense at what exactly he was going to do to show me what it felt like.   I heard a scream, a feminine one.   My mother. She screamed at my father to stop and that this wouldn’t fix things, but only make them worse. Dad didn’t say a thing, but his actions were easily defined.   There was a sudden crash and a thump, coming from directly over my bed. I heard the slow tripping of footsteps and followed them with my eyes through what was the hallway, and through the kitchen right to the top of the steps. The smoke alarm was going off, I don’t remember quite when it started but I do remember it at this time, calling out like a warning for me to run, to hide, to get out of there. I remember it calling as a shriek trying to befriend me, but I couldn’t let this be my friend, I was still unable to move, fearful of my father’s next moves. He started down the stairs, making it faster this time, he rushed straight to me, unsteady but to me all the same, he punched me, straight in the nose.   I didn’t see it coming, but I felt the blow and the sting as it broke. I felt the burn and tasted the blood as it ran freely from my nose. What had I done? I didn’t deserve this. But I remember hitting the cement floor, head sideways and being able to see nothing but father’s feet.   He stumbled toward where I was now laying and he began to kick me in the stomach, hard and quick. He never uttered a word, except the soft intake of breath or steady wheeze. He continued to kick me but he was moving from the stomach to the chest. I seem to remember the softest crack of what may have been my ribs. I remember his hands grabbing me and shaking me, still not saying anything just shaking me hard and endlessly. He threw me to the ground and began to leave me.   I remember smelling my own blood, mixed slightly with smoke. I heard the fire alarm again, calling out. Different now I remember. Not such like a friend but more of an enemy, laughing at my misfortune.   I remember knowing that I had to get out of the house, despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out.   I crawled up to the stairs. I could feel the fire, smell it, taste it. I tried crawling up the stairs, making it up a few despite my broken ribs and blackened eyes. I remember seeing the open door to the kitchen, engulfed in flames. I remember the stairs collapsing under my weight due to the fact that they were weakened by flames. But after that, I remember nothing more. . .3