The Other Daddy

A little girl talks about a mean man that sometimes takes the place of her father, who has Multiple Personality Disorder.

I stand, trembling, and stare. There he is before me; my father. With his bright green eyes and dark red hair that’s always partly covering them. There’s no denying the familiar face I’ve seen so many times before, but the man standing there can not possibly be the same one that kisses me goodnight, or holds me close when I’m afraid. The stranger in front of me is not the man who can bring a smile to my face no matter how hopeless I feel. He’s not the same person who inspires me, who I look up to and long to follow after. He must be someone else. A clone. An evil twin. He can’t be my father, because daddy would never ever harm anyone, especially not mom.

I’ve seen them fight before. With mom’s short fuse, she gets angry a lot. But whenever she loses her temper, it’s her with the anger blazing in her eyes, not dad. His voice never rises at her. His hands never fall on her harshly.  He talks to her calmly to ease her out of her rage. Or he hangs his head and takes whatever insults she hurls at him as if he deserves all her criticism.  Daddy doesn’t get angry. Daddy has no temper. He’s good and kind and loving, and never has a bad thing to say about anyone. He has never ever caused anyone pain. But there lays mom, kneeling on the ground, cringing at the stranger’s feet. Her knees are bloody, because she fell on them when he pushed her down. Her cheek is red because he hit her.  She mutters bad words under her breath. He kicks her brutally. I scream for my daddy.

I saw my brothers fight once.  They we’re arguing with some kids at school, and after the bell rang to dismiss us, their words turned into punches.  I yelled at them to stop it, but they paid no attention to me. Their fight raged on, violent and unreasonable, like all the bad stuff on their video games.  But life isn’t some game. The pain was real, I could hear it in their yells and grunts. I could smell it in the stench of blood, and see it in the bruises and scrapes that covered their bodies. My yells to get them to stop turned more frantic, then, without me realizing it. The words changed. I no longer directed my shouts at them, I wailed for my father. And he came. He wrapped me up in his protective arms, and I hid my face in his chest as the noise of the fight died down. My daddy picked me up and carried me home, repeating soothing words in his soft, tender voice the whole            way.

I was lost once, when I was real little. It was during one of our family outings to shop in the big part of the city.  We we’re all walking together, but I stopped to pick a wish for my daddy. But when I turned back around holding the dandelion, everyone was gone.  I ran down the street, pressing my way through the mass of people. I glanced around franticly, my little eyes scanning every face, but I couldn’t find anyone. When there seemed to be no where left to look, I stood still in the middle of all the people, let the white puffy flower fall to the ground, and began to cry for my daddy. Soon he was there, wrapping his loving around me until my gushing tears slowed to a quiet stream. He picked up the dandelion, smiled at me warmly, and said, “Did you want to make a wish? Let’s make one together.” We both blew, and all the tiny white pedals released from our breath hitched a ride on the wind to new destinations. I smiled, and Daddy held my hand as he led me back to the others.

The stranger turns now, hearing my call. His eyes fall on me, but there’s no trace of tenderness or affection in his gaze. Still, I cling to my hopes that my daddy will come. The stranger advances, one step at a time. There is an annoyed scowl across his lips. I stare up at him with a pleading look.  I hold my breath and wait for arms to wrap around me, but the stranger extends one single arm instead of two. He doesn’t wrap it around me, but instead holds it above me for a heartbeat. Then he lowers it, and pain envelopes my face. I scream and fall. The pain from the read mark on my face is nothing in comparison to the bruise his blow inflicted on my heart. 

I open my eyes and see my father crouching before me. His eyes are glazed over with sadness as he looks at me. There’s a worried frown spread across his face, and his voice waves as he asks my why I’m shaking. I only realize that my body is vibrating as he says that. I guess I was afraid, but there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. The stranger had a sterner voice, and a deathly look, like the very evil of his soul could be seen in his eyes. The stranger is gone, and daddy’s back. I stare at him with disbelief. Mommy steps into view behind him. There is a look of relief on her face, while my father just stares at me with puzzlement. His concern is growing, I still haven’t answered his question. I start to speak, only to find my voice is shaking just as much as my body. Mommy presses a finger to her lips and shakes her head at me.  I fall silent before I can tell daddy about the evil stranger that looks like him. Mommy and Daddy have talked about the stranger before, and Daddy always gets very upset and scared. That must be why Mommy wants me to stay quiet. She doesn’t want Daddy to worry anymore.  I wrap my arms around Daddy’s neck instead of talking. He holds me close in his familiar arms as I weep. Hopefully the stranger won’t bother us anymore. He’s not a nice man. He’s nothing like my daddy.