I was never a bad kid. No matter how much Ma screamed at me, I knew I wasn't. Sometimes I got scared, that's all, and It was the pounding that did me in. Ma would holler at me from behind my bedroom door, saying all sorts of nasty things, but it was the pounding that made my head fuzzy. She would beat on the door with all her might, so hard that a week later I found myself wiping the blood from her hands off the peeling white paint. Every time the door pulsed against its frame with the ferociousness of a struggling heart I would hug myself a little tighter, and my head got a little darker.

     I loved Ma, and I knew she loved me too. It was the wine that made her act foolish. Before Pa died, we were bouncing along the dirt trail that lead to our house in his old truck.

     "Something about that wine makes the light in your mother's attic get dimmer and dimmer." he told me with tired eyes. "She ever start acting foolish, you just lock the door, you hear? You just lock the door and wait for me to get home and I'll handle it." Not long after that, Pa crashed on a road just like trail leading to our home, and at thirteen I became man of our house. Not long after that I dropped a piece of the good china on the floor, and as it shattered into sharp little fragments of snow, the light in Ma's attic went completely dark.

     Every night, while my mother sang her awful song and the little lock on the handle of my bedroom door struggled to keep her at bay, I prayed for Pa to come home, just one more time. I guess you're not so smart at that age. She screamed at the top of her lungs. She said I was a bad boy, and that God would punish me.

     I would scream back to her as the padlock trashed about, "I love you, Ma! I promise I'm not bad!"

    She never told me she loved me though, she just kept pounding on the door. She never let me sleep. After the first two nights I gave up and let the pounding smash through me. It rang through my head like a drumbeat and echoed through most of the house. Luckily, we lived in a big farm house on the outskirts of town, so if I went to Pa's old study and closed the door, I couldn't hear the pounding coming from inside my bedroom. After a few days, the pounding grew weaker until it was a faint scratching. I thanked God for that. I loved Ma, and I know she loved me too. It was just the wine that made her act foolish.

I wasn't a bad kid, I know I wasn't. I just wish Ma didn't drink. It scared me, and when I get scared, the light in my attic gets dimmer and dimmer.