Editors Note: The following is a user-submitted article which was first submitted to the site over a month ago, unfortunately, due to my junk folder presuming its contents weren’t interesting enough, I didn’t realise I had it until now. Having read it, I have now deemed it to be ‘mildly interesting’ therefore it is being posted.
Most children are embarassed by their parents at least one time in their life, some hate their parents, some are just indifferent. But my childhood is a unique one, to the best of my knowledge there is no one in the world with a father quite like mine. I used to watch childrens tv as a child, a show I particularly enjoyed involved children who were able to humiliate their parents in some ways (usually involving being ‘gunged’). Their complaints were trivial things like “my dad always sings when we’re walking down the road together” or “my mum always thinks shes cool and tries to talk to my friends”. I used to dream of having my father on this television show, my complaint would be “my dad roams the woods behind our house all day scaring hikers and apparently kidnapping small children”, he would be picking out the dried gunge from his fur for weeks. These kids had nothing on me.
I first remember my father being different from other childrens’ when one day in school we talked about what our parents did. Some said “my dad’s a banker”, others said “my dad sells cars”, when I replied “my dad runs naked outside the house all day hiding from people but not particularly well” the class erupted with laughter and henceforth referred to me as ‘Rape Dad’. When I went home that night I asked my mother why my father was so different from everyone else. “That’s just his nature” she said, “it’s his upbringing you see, he was raised in the woods and is very different from you and me”. I was totally confused as to why my mother was even with him, he never spent any time with us, the only time he returned to the house was late at night. I’d hear him stumble in, dragging some heavy object across the wooden floor and into the basement where he’d slam the door behind him and remain for the rest of the night until first light. My mother used to say he worked at the bank but I saw him a few times wandering around in the woods with no clothes on. One time in particular he was running full speed at a rabbit which he saw in the distance, once he caught it he rang it out in his hands like a wet dish cloth. Perhaps he’d been laid off from the bank and was too ashamed to admit it to us.
He was a very tall and hairy man. He was so covered in hair that it was hard to distinguish any actual features on his face, his body hair was so thick that he never got cold, even when stark-bollock-naked in the winter. I used to ask my mother why they were together and how did she even come about meeting him. She replied that she met him on a camping trip once, he snuck into her tent in the middle of the night and “the rest is histroy”, I never liked that story, it always made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. The fact that they had stayed together all these years was very confusing, my mother used to say that I shouldn’t be too hard on my father and that he provided well for us, there was always food on the table. By that she was referring to the fact that a dead animal would be placed, usually splattered, onto the kitchen table every morning when we woke up, I’m a vegetarian to this day because of these daily horrific sights. On one particular morning I came into the kitchen to see just a splatter of blood on the table but no meat, when I asked my mother what had happened she simply said “it was gone off so I chucked it” and carried on whatever task it was that she was doing. Later in the day I took the bins out and could have sworn I saw, in the bottom of the bin, what looked like the top of a disembowled head of a grown man swimming in the juices of the bin. Upon seeing me at the bin, my mother quickly shut the lid claiming I would ‘let all the flies out’ if I kept it open any longer.
My mothers family did not approve either, one trip to my grandfathers house I overheard a conversation between him and my mother. My grandfather said things like “can’t he just put some clothes on for once?” and “that hippie needs to clean himself up”. I dont think my grandfather really understood the extent of how strange my father really was. My father’s side of the family however was a complete mystery, my mother used to say vague things like “there’s not many of them left anymore”, I never really understood what she meant by this, but then again my mother was married to a seven foot-plus tall covered-in-hair man who spent his days shitting on logs and growling at birds in trees so perhaps she wasn’t all there herself.
I left the family home as early as I could, at the age of 17. I met a girl who I didn’t particularly like (and who didn’t particularly like me) and knocked her up accidentally. Thankfully her parents bought us a place and I was finally free from the mountain. My fathers genes skipped me (fortunately I resembled more of my mother and the only especially hairy area of my body was my genitalia which was easily maintained with a daily trim). My son however was not as fortunate as me, the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are covered in thick black hair. As are his cheeks (but strangely not the rest of his face and head), he had to start shaving at the age of 3 the poor thing.
Once I left the family home I mostly severed communication with my parents. My mother would call me every few months asking me how I was, a lot of the time I could hear howling in the background but the phone was never passed to my father, “he’s out having a walk” or “I haven’t seen him in a few days” my mother would say. Shortly After my 30th birthday my mother would call me and inform me that my father hadn’t come home in a few weeks and that the daily animal carcasses had stopped arriving on the kitchen table every morning. She was worried, but seemingly more about the lack of food rather than the lack of my father. A few days later she would call me again to tell me she’d heard hunters had been on the mountain, her thought was that perhaps he’d been mistaken for a bear and been shot and killed. I couldn’t get the image of his head, stuffed and hanging on someones wall out of my mind for weeks. To this day I still do not truly understand anything about my father, his origins, his history and even his personality are a complete mystery to me. He made a significant portion of my life extremely unpleasant, although not on purpose. He was misunderstood, but now in my old age I like to hope that he was at least happy. Perhaps he was just one of those people that enjoy being nude in nature, running through the woods screaming and eating raw flesh of whatever woodland creature (and perhaps hiker’s) that he could find.
Mr B. Foot
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