A fictive situation based on a true story:

His perspective:

I am drunk, but I can never be satisfied. The dozen of empty beer bottles standing on the old oak wooden kitchen table fill the space so much there is barely any space left. Among the empty brown-tinted bottles of beer gather wine and harder stuff bottles. But that is okay, I have lived with this for almost 60 years now and I did never had any problems with this. So I would not call it a drinking problem. My body is used to it. Plus I have a good physiology, towering over 1,90 Meter and weighing above 150 kg my body takes a lot to get drunk or show signs. Also, I metabolise this faster due to my mass. But surely it is not the alcohol that increased my body weight, it is my love for foods of all kind, as long as it is local cuisine, that is.

Behind the wall of bottles I assume the little boy sitting still in his place. It is way past his bed time, but I need someone to bring me another case of beer for the next hour of drinking. My wife, his mother sitting next to me, barely conscious, tired and overly drunk, she stopped talking 20 minutes ago and fell asleep occasionally having hiccups from the mixture of wine and beer.

I belt to the boy he should bring me another case of the beer from the dark food pantry across the hall. He looks sheepishly and anxious. But surely that is just because the room is dark and he has to do it all on his own. But how should he ever become a man, a real tough man, if he can’t handle the dark and obey commands? How could he ever become a respectful leader of a household if he isn’t more like me? He is lazy and dumb, sometimes idiotic and hyperactive. He is weeping a lot, just like his siblings. They all are weak, they all are lazy. The only one ever doing something in this house is me, am I not?

The boy says he is too afraid to do it all by himself. My eyes gleam with anger. I growl demanding him to do it and when he repeatedly says he is too afraid I count up the numbers one to three and raise my arm with an extended hand. God I wanna smack that boy. How dare he disrespect me? How dare he question my decisions? Alas, it is my money that brings him food to the table. He hunchingly runs out of the kitchen tilting his little head to watch out wether I will follow him into the dark.

It is taking him so long to bring me another case and I am feeling my throat dry out and my level of alcohol slowly decreasing, which makes me super angry. There is feelings I am trying to hide, feelings I want to lock up. Stress from work that I have no other way of diminishing. I hear his little voice panting as he tries to carry the case and then a sudden banging noise and shattering glass. God I wanna kill that kid. That was my last beer. Enough of this wimp, enough of this disobedience and weakness. I wait until he slowly comes into the kitchen stuttering an apology and looking for a broom to clean up the mess. I let him come inside. I close the lacquered sliding door shut and cut of any escape route. Then I slowly start approaching him. His knowing eyes searching for a way to escape this room. My wife still asleep, merely woken for seconds when the case fell to the ground. “You are worth noting” I yell at him, “You are not even half the person that we are. We are academics and you have to obey us. You are a constant failure and you will never ever be anything else.” My hands are shaking as my anger takes the better of me. Everything is red. My hand on his face and his tiny back. Slapping his ass, His tears flowing and his tiny whimpering noises escaping under the hand I put onto his mouth to diminish the squelching screaming.

I can’t tell for how long I lost control. But then I stop and he weepingly leaves the room. What a useless child. My wife looking me straight into my eyes but saying nothing. It is her kid, not mine.