Constructive Critism only. -- LiveWire College Forums

I wrote my monologue that I was talking about the other day for my Fiction Writing class. If some of you would read it and give constructive criticism, I'd appreciate some feedback. It looks really long, but it's not.

I sat down one evening at my desk in my room after a tiff with my father and cried for hours. I guess you couldn't really call it a tiff; it was more of a brawl. He took something out of proportion, as he always does, and turned it into an all out boxing match. I remember standing in the living room feeling the walls close in and the only thing I could see in my blurred downpour of tears was him, looming over me with his teeth bared and his claws out. I remember the smell of his bourbon breathe on my face as he leaned closer to sneer at me. I remember how his hairy knuckles felt making contact with my left eye. But most of all, I remember how he stood over my shaking body, spit bourbon and salvia on my face and exclaimed, "Worthless bitches like you should go to bed now."

That was last week. It's Thursday of the following week and I'm sitting at my desk again. The only place I feel secure in this house. Yes, it's a house. Homes are for people whose parents love them. I have a pen in my hand. It's silver and gold stripped with my name on it: Alice. My mother's name was Alice and I got this pen from her on my 15th birthday last year. That was before she left my father for another man. She said I couldn't go with her because Daddy wouldn't allow it, but that she would visit me every weekend. I haven't seen her since my 15th birthday and this is the first day I've touched this pen she gave me. I'd kept it in the bottom drawer of my desk and resented it as a parting gift of false lies from her. She'd never come back. I don't blame her. Daddy's gone crazy without her here and I'm the blunt of his anger. I sometimes wonder if I were a boy if I wouldn't be treated like I am. I bet I wouldn't. I think of that fantasy often and pray to wake up a boy every day. I know it won't happen, but what prayers ever do?

Today, as I hold this pen, I've finally decided what to use it for. I brought it out of the dark and into the light, because I'm going to use it to free myself. Daddy just doesn't know it yet. I'm leaving this house. I'm packing up and going away to live with my Aunt Shirl. She said if things ever got too bad to go see her. I've finally decided they have. Running away has always scared me, because Daddy would surely find me. But after last week I'm taking a stand. I'm going to escape this dungeon and find peace elsewhere. So, I'm writing him a letter goodbye. I hope he sees what I see, however, I really doubt it.

"Dearest Daddy,
Remember when I'd still call you daddy? I do. I was about five or six. I would sit on your lap and you'd read me stories of far away places. We would giggle together and mommy would watch in awe at the connection we truly had. I miss those days and now I know we'll never have them again.
Why must you hurt me? What have I done? I know these answers, but I don't think they are fair. Mommy left you for another man and that made you feel inferior. It's crazy to think what inferiority can do to a person. I have never done anything wrong and yet you're convinced I'm some sort of evil. Maybe it's an out lash at women in general. Maybe it's an assumption that I'm evil because I came from her. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter anymore. I'm done. You're right, perhaps, about one thing. I'm leaving like she left. Except I'm not leaving you for another father, I'm leaving to have a better life. I'm really quite surprised that I can write this considering my left eye is swollen shut, but I'm managing.
I hope that in time you can see why I left. All I ever really wanted was a daddy. I had one a long time ago and now all I've got are bruises and cuts with a damaged self esteem. I don't love you as I did before. I despise you; I hate you. I wish that you were never my daddy. Maybe you were just a fa�ade before...a fantasy hope of having a real father and I got the shit end of the stick with you. Some fathers stay fathers, others rot at the core. I bet your core is black. It's nothing more than a decaying shell of empty and false hopes you had. With that last thought, I'm gone. Forever.
Do not love, Alice.

I set the pen down, quivering with nervousness. I liked the letter, but felt fear still. What if I chickened out and couldn't do it? My Aunt Shirl was waiting at the town park down the road. All I had to do was fold the letter and lay it on my bed. But what was blocking me? He was. He was in my head and diseasing it. I couldn't do this, I was crazy. He would find me. I would be dragged back down. Shaking my head, I get up slowly and fold the paper. It lays neatly on the pillow case. I stare at it and hear his slurred voice echoing in my head "You can't leave me..."

I move over to the dresser mirror and sternly stare at myself. Yes, I can leave. I glance at the letter once last time and then pick up my bag I have packed already. I feel a sigh of relief as I walk down the stairs and know he's passed out and won't catch me. As I stroll through the front door, I feel the night air on my face. It's never felt more refreshing.

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Dear It's Bearsy Bitch, Happy Hanukkah! Or Merry Christmas

Love always, Adolf Hitler.

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