Bastard.

I couldn't move. The creak on the top of the stairs announced his nearing presence. He roared my name knowing that no one would hear his cry. No retribution for his evil actions.

He sniffed the air, taking in the pleasure of knowing my impending torment. He knew I was nearby. The haze of alcohol was impeding his judgement though.

I tried to stifle everything - breathing, movement and voice. I wanted to scream out but knew no one would hear my cries of desperation.

I swallowed hard. He paused on the second to last step.

He consulted his phone. He flicked a few numbers and slipped it back into his torn jeans breast pocket. I could see his wobbliness through the crack of the door.

Then it came. It assaulted my nostrils with an acrid venom. The stench of a man who hasn't washed in many days. Mix in rolled up cigarettes, physical labour and bourbon whiskey. And a fascination with eating fish.

I brought my knees up to bury my head between. I tried to muffle my gag reflex.

I breathed in the remaining embers of fabric softener that still clung to my dress. It took me away from the moment. To a time when my mother sang in the kitchen and cooked apple pies. His deepened roar brought me back to the present.

I could tell that he was getting impatient.

This happened nearly every Sunday evening. He would fall out of his truck, stumble up the two wooden steps on the porch and come looking for me. He would raid the few last pieces of food from the fridge and then come charging. He was predictable.

I was getting to the point where I no longer cared. I wouldn't fight back like I used to. I think I had no fight left in me. I lifted my head out of the scrunch from underneath the stairs. I opened the latch and expected to hear him shout at me.

But all I heard was a dull thud. No shouting.

Then I heard wheezing.

I walked into the back porch to see my prick of an abusive father clutching his chest.

His left hand grabbed at his food stained shirt. His right hand clutched a chicken drumstick hung near the carpet. His eyes wavered in desperation at me.

I slowly approached him and was amazed at how calm I was. He was gasping for air. His wheezing asked me to call for an ambulance.

I shushed him and rubbed the damp sweaty hair out of his eyes. My reassurance seemed to settle him for a second or two.

Then I picked up the chicken leg and sat on the opposite couch.

Then I watched the bastard die.