PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I think I suffer from it.
The nights I wake up crying.
The fun times ruined by memories.
Wallowing in self-pity.
It's because, one night, I was hanging with my real dad up in Dallas.
Well, he had a friend over. He was wasted.
So he popped a drug in my dad's beer, and he passed out on the floor.
The drunk faggot told me he was dead.
I hunched over him, and took a pulse.
Being naive, I said he was alive.
The guy, his name is Chad, took a knife and tried to stab my dad.
I come to my senses and see blood everywhere, and my dad CQC'ing the other guy.
As if in slo-mo, my dad gets put through a table, and lies uncounscious.
Adreanilne tells me to improvise and hit the guy with a broom.
He grabs it and hits me with it.
My dad gets up and gets some good hits, and falls back down.
I call 911.
Cops are on their way.
Guy goes to kitchen and, in his drunken stupor, grabs a fork instead of a knife.
I grab the knife.
He drops his fork.
I tell him to get out.
He says ok.
I lock the door.
I take a 10 minute breather.
He tries to kick the door down.
My dad gets up and goes outside.
Guy is half-naked and is breaking through the window muttering something unintelligable.
He goes inside.
Everything is over.
The cops arrive.
Chad never got jail time.