The day my father almost hit me

January 25, 2026. The day things definitely shifted for me. 

It feels so far away, like it belongs to another timeline entirely. My year and two months at my father's place feels so distant anyway: like it was some kind of fever dream, or some timeskip in my existence. I feel closer to my seven years of NEETdom than I feel to the time I spent in the Twilight Zone that was living with him. Well, except for my sisters and stepsisters. I've hung my sister's drawings in my office, on the wall next to me, and the stepsisters are still following me on the gram.

I have the date in mind because that's when I started making a log that lasted up until I left my father's place in March. I had recorded it into ChatGPT because at the time, I was using it kinda as an interactive diary. (Wish it didn't suck so much now, it was really handy, and it was nice having something that talked back, even if it was a robot)

***

We had lunch that day. It was a piece of beef with... green beans I believe. Not uncommon on a Sunday, and of course eaten at a late hour because we'd always eat late on Sundays, and at the table in the kitchen, because "he wanted to eat with me". Not even asking me if I wanted to: he'd eat with me "because he wanted to spend time with me". Yeah.

Think I also remember what I was wearing that day. My blue knitted dress. Twas cold.

When I came down from upstairs, I saw that my CV and cover letter were here, printed, and that there were annotations and "improvements" written all over them. The cover letter was for the job I've got now, the one in Leo, Hera and Janus' service. 

Oh fuck, here we go again.

I wasn't in the mood, but whatever.

Of course, while we were eating, he brought that up. 

Ah, by the way, we'll have to rework your CV a little, and also your cover letter.

Ah, so it's still not good enough.

I just didn't want to eat anymore by that point. Stomach closed up.

Hi'iaka, no, it's not that it's not good enough, it's just that I'm here to accompany you.

You're being controlling, oh God.

I'm not doing this to control you, Hi'iaka, this is the role of a parent. To accompany their child so they can succeed in life.

But my professional advisor was praising how good I was at handling this on my own. I do recall he argued about how I would believe her but that whenever he would say something to me it was "wrong". But I don't recall when he said that. I just know it was somewhere around there.

I finished my plate. I'm done talking. I was already done talking the minute he brought that up and I wasn't going to "fix" that perfectly fine application. I had submitted it to my advisor and she had approved it a hundred percent. No improvements to be made. It was good as it was.

I remember I probably took my plate to the dishwasher.

About your room in the new house [the suicide house], if you want to change your wall colours, you'll have to ask your stepmom too.

But this is my territory.

This is OUR house.

I'm so sick of this shit at this point. Why would she have anything to say about a part of the house that is entirely my place?? Can't I have a bit of anything belonging to me??

This is MY territory.

But this is your room in our house.

I lost it. Why bring this shit up when I'm already all wound up? I think I asked him why.

Because I want us to talk about it, because I want us to have a discussion, that's called communicating.

This is MY territory. MY room. THIS IS MINE.

I would repeat it, over and over. Angrily. Loudly. I was shaking.

This is MY territory, for fuck's sake, what difference is it going to make in the rest of the house? There's no one else in here. 

You wanna know? Your room's the best room in the whole house. Everyone says that.

Yeah of course. It's tiny as fuck. The ones up there [where two of my stepsisters would be] are better. 

The rooms up there are badly insulated. So don't go around and...

Of course, I'm always wrong. Again.

In frustration I kick the rubbish bin.

***

This is when he gets up. Suddenly. 

The look in his eyes.

The same as when he would grab the flip-flop to threaten Jap with it when he would not be behaving "correctly" or resisting orders.

***

He did hit Jap in front of me when he was just a puppy. 

I was fourteen years old and was spending a couple weeks at his place. He had munched on a cat-shaped door holder kinda thing. My father, when he found out probably way too late, sent him to his pillow in the kitchen and slapped the fuck out of him multiple times with a flip-flop. 

I couldn't do anything. I was frozen in place, and I was just a teenage girl. 

I never forgot. Those sights are burned in my memory.

I think he didn't yelp. He probably froze.

When I tried to comfort Jap after he was done being beaten, my father said:

No. Otherwise he won't understand.

So I did nothing. I didn't want to be yelled at.

***

Another time, when I had just come, Jap had injured himself with whatever, and my father would disinfect the wound. Of course he'd bark in pain when touched there: my father gave him a tap on the muzzle and would tell him to shut up.

When he got severely constipated due to his deviated rectum that was the result of a surgery for prostate cancer years ago, my father took care of it and gave him an enema in the shower, but not without constantly cursing under his breath.

J'ai que ça à faire, moi.

Not exactly easy to translate but if I were to give the closest English meaning, it would be something among the lines of "like I need that..." or "I've got nothing better to do". 

***

I remember I grabbed him by the pullover, at this instant.

Would you...? I muttered in absolute terror.

I fucking thought he would hit me. He had everything that signaled me he was about to. His posture. His eyes. The way he stood. I can still feel it months later.

I break into tears and start running away. I can't even speak. I'm crying and shaking.

Look at what you've done! Look at the rubbish bin!

I start trying to grab my things. My bag, my coat, my boots. He'd argue in the background, I apparently wrote that he said that "alright, there it is, it always ends up like that". I just remember I was desperate to escape.

Why are you going away?

I'm panicking. Panicking like my life is in danger.

Oh, my USB drive and my charger. In my room upstairs. Shit. 

I abandon my coat and run into the staircase.

Your coat's on the ground!

No big deal!

But the dog is going to sit on it.

I'll just shake it off.

Well then your coat's going to be gross.

I grabbed my USB drive and my phone charger. He kept trying to talk but I wasn't listening. I was crying, panicking, my heart was shooting up to an ungodly rate. He tried to block my exit I think, or at least he was outside with the bin.

I didn't try to hit you, I was just stepping in!

I ran to my car, crying. Hoping nobody heard me, but also hoping someone did. Got in. Turned my key. Ignited. I couldn't stay there no more. I had to drive away, and I did.

***

I cried and shook at the wheel for the ten minutes it took me to reach a Leclerc not far from there. 

I parked and recorded. I was barely able to speak. It took me a while to calm down. 

Then I drove to a village, 25km away. I hadn't been this far yet. It was before the 'ori tahiti workshop 200km away. At the time, even 50km felt far away. I visited a cemetery, took pictures. Told my mom about everything. 

I don't remember what she said but she was, as usual, probably worried but hardly showing it. She isn't exactly great with intensity, but she cares. I mean, it's her who told me to go to an airbnb on the day it got too much for me.

The little bottle of essential oils I had fell off from my rearview mirror on the way back. Thankfully, a shop tenant, although the shop itself was closed, helped me by letting me buy tissues and giving me a wet rag to try and clean up the inside of my car. 

The scent was giving me a headache, and I had to air out my clothes and put a bowl of vinegar overnight for it to go away, but I'm grateful for this man.

Since then, no more car scents. Shame, I loved those little bottles, but lesson learned, and most car perfumes make me feel a little sick anyway.

***

When I came back in the evening, he had already gone to my stepmom's place.

I found a little letter on the table. 

"Hi'iaka,

I've gone now. I would have preferred to see you before doing so.

I am sad that we had a row and I am worried because you're driving!

Your letter and CV are in this bundle. Do as you like, whether you want to adapt them or not is up to you (we can talk about it if you like). I'll email you the addresses so you can post them tomorrow. 

If you wouldn't mind helping me out: could you vacuum your sisters' bedroom and the stairs, and take the glass bottles to the recycling bin? 

Love, Dad. 

PS: It's raining, so make sure Jap [the dog] doesn’t make a mess with his paws. Thanks :)"

No apologies. Nothing. Me-me-me. It's all about him.

***

After this happened, I would lock my door all the time. I even shielded myself with the door as he once came to speak to me about the job. 

Not ever did he ask why I was doing that. All that mattered to him was that "there was a door between us", and that "he felt like the mailman". And that he's "just showing interest", saying it as if I don't know what "showing interest" is. 

And to this day, he has never apologized nor even acknowledged what happened.

He never will.