He Was A LIAR

They say abuse is learned and passed on to the next generation and so on and so on. That it’s just a vicious cycle. Mental abuse; physical, emotional, sexual; it’s all the same. It all hurts. It scars cripples and maims. I’ve seen a lot of that.
I wonder what ever happened to my father; the one who learned these things and passed them on to everyone who ever came into contact with him? How many hundreds of lives did he ultimately destroy with his illness? Were people so blind as not to notice? They said he had a bad temper. Had they never looked into his eyes during one of those episodes? It was rage…completely unleashed, black and ugly.
I’m not even sure what I know about him. I still can’t decipher between the lies and the truths he told. He was quite a talker …… a liar mostly; if that’s what it took to make him bigger, stronger and more of a man than his listeners.
But he did have stories that were true; for the most part. They were always intriguing and kept his listeners on the edge of their seats. They’d look at him with such admiration and respect: that was exactly what he needed, he actually craved it. It made him feel right somehow to have the masses at awe with his tales of bravery, quick thinking and strength.
Many evenings, men would sit for hours crowding around him, leaning forward in their chairs, so as not to miss one word, and ask for more. “Wes,” they’d say “Tell us about the time at the saw mill; tell us about old Joe” I got so bored hearing him talk about the same thing all time.
I was very young and made a remark about it once. Mom scurried across the room, cuffed me along side the head. Her pointing finger telling me to hush up. I looked up at her and then threw Dad a dirty look. Mom, back on the other side of the room by now was wearing a look of warning and slightly shaking her head from side to side. Don’t do that either, was her message.