“I hate my father.”

I hate my father. On most days, I just can’t understand him. On other days I can’t stand him. Today is much worse, and I have to get to school.

Let me explain. It’s my responsibility to get the trash to the front of the house every Monday and Thursday morning for the trashmen to pick up. It’s a simple job except for the fact that the neighborhood cats and dogs rip the bags every time.

So I beg him. Again.

“Please buy a metal trash can to put the bags in. Por favor, papa. I don’t mind throwing the trash out. But I have to rebag the slimy, disgusting maggot-infested trash. I feel like vomiting every time. Por favor.”

“Vete a la chingada y tira la basura.” He tells me to go to hell. Again.

I’ve never felt this angry before. This is not me.

But how is this ok? How am I supposed to clean up in time for school? Am I a bad son? Am I unreasonable? Am I being lazy?

Isn’t he disgusted with the smell in the backyard? The maggots crawling on the ground?

I have so many questions. No answers.

He won’t talk to me to help me understand. I don’t mind doing what he says. Why can’t I stop crying? I hate this feeling. This can’t be normal.

I swear on everything that I will do better when I grow up. I have to do better.

This ends with me.