Irate

I'll never forget the irony of the rage that flashed across my father's face when I flinched. His temper was red on his ears and cheeks, his eyes narrowed, prepared for battle. He was screaming his deafening yell, the kind that would still ring in your ears minutes later.

He was lashing out like a vicious caged animal, so instinctively, I flinched. Suddenly I wasn't a twenty-something adult; I was five again, the whipping boy—a cowering thing, his child, to scream at. I had flinched then, and I flinched now. A stinging slap across the back of the head was expected, then. Was that the case now? Would he dare hit an adult? 

My thoughts raced around and around. I didn't want to think about being a child again; it was bad enough the first time. 

My father flushed a darker red and raised his maroon hand above his head. I couldn't help but wonder if he was on the verge of a third heart attack, as the cartoonish colors he was changing couldn't be healthy. 

"What are you fucking expecting!?" He spat, seething so hard his whole body shook, his breath raspy.

I wanted to say that I expected him to hit me. He had a few times when I was young; what was to stop him now? Instead, I lowered my clenched shoulders and looked away.