By Desiree Carrizosa
Dad’s shouts bounced off the walls, we
hid under our beds because a real
monster roamed our home. His cool
shoes and nice eyes masked his rage. We
covered our ears and shut our eyes. He left
a splatter of red from mom’s lip on my school
picture that hung on the living room wall. We
flinched from his metal fisted punch to the wall. His lurk-
ing eyes scanned the room. Our brother came home late
and saw the splatter of red. His running footsteps, we
heard his running footsteps and his strike
to dad’s face. Mom’s scream made us run straight, straight
to where the screams were. Dad’s eyes were cold. We
saw our brother pushed into the hot stove spilling every sing-
le hot bean on the floor. He screamed in pain and shouted sin-
ful words to our creator. Dad made another splatter of red. We
rushed to shield our brother from his rage. He felt hurt and thin.
Dad pushed us off our brother and yelled, his breath smelled of gin.
Our cries meant nothing because according to him, we
were just girls, not his daughters. Mom took the radio playing jazz
and threw it across the room. She demanded he leave by the end of June
or next time she wouldn’t miss. We
haven’t heard from him in years, sometimes we think he die-
d, but Hell knows it would be too soon.
About the Author
Desiree Carrizosa, Coppin State University
Desiree Carrizosa is a junior English major at Coppin State University. After graduation, Desiree hopes to become a teacher. You can find her writing or wiping the dirt off of her face after softball practice.