My Father's Beast

Written & Illustrated by

Gail E. Haley

Owner’s Manual

Please Read Carefully Before Operating

L i f e t i m e

G u a r a n t e e

“You are now the proud owner of your very own BEAST. It requires no batteries but will provide you hours of amusement. It is more faithful than a dog, smarter than a cat, and sings more sweetly than any canary. Warning: The Beast must never ever be given alcohol or drugs — no matter how much it begs. Ingesting these substances can turn it into a raging monster. In case of emergency, call your local Beast Control unit at: IMN-trouble.”

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Written & Illustr ated by

Gail E. Haley

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Haley, Gail E. My father’s beast / Gail E. Haley. p. cm. Summary: Father’s beast, Namelos, must never be given alcohol or drugs, ingesting these substances will turn him into a raging monster, but with help, he can learn how to “tame the beast.” ISBN-13: 978-1-933251-35-6 [1. Alcoholism--Fiction. 2. Fathers--Fiction. 3. Family life--Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.H1383My 2006 [E]--dc22 2006021007

2006

Parkway Publishers, Inc. Post Office Box 3678 • Boone, North Carolina 28607 www.parkwaypublishers.com Tel/Fax: (828) 265-3993

Book design by Aaron Burleson, spokesmedia

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Dedicated to Erin and Marguerite

Copyright © 2006 by Gail E. Haley. All Rights Reserved.

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I remember when our family was happy. Dad used to pat my sister Lisa’s curls and call her his Lamb. I was his Lion, and we had our own growl language. Mom usually said, “No growling at the table.” After dinner, Dad would get down on the floor, and ride us on his back. That usually led to a lot of tickling and horse play. We had three normal pets. My Mom had a canary named Florence. My sister, Lisa, had Cleo the cat. And Buster was my trusty dog. But my Father had a Beast.

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Dad made the Beast do tricks. It turned somersaults; it could walk on its back feet, stand on its head, and wave its tail in the air. But it had one trick that was really scary. It sat up and begged for alcohol. “Just one little drink,” it pleaded, and it cried real crocodile tears. 9

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We begged Daddy not to feed the Beast, but he said, “What harm can a drink do?” After one little drink, it begged for another, and then it demanded more and more. With each drink, the Beast got bigger, and we could tell that Daddy was no longer in control of it.

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When my Dad began to feed the Beast every night, he started to change. He couldn’t see what was happening to him, but we could. Dad didn’t want to read to us, take out the garbage, or do things around the house. He spent too much money on alcohol, and sometimes there was not enough left for food or school clothes. Finally, my Mom got really scared of what was happening to him. She made him promise he would not feed the Beast any more, and put it in “time out.” For a while, our family life was good again.

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But a few weeks later, Daddy didn’t come home in time for dinner. Mom read to us, and we went to bed. But a terrible racket woke me up. I looked out of my bedroom. “I don’t want to drink any more!” shouted Daddy. “But I do!” the Beast screamed. They rolled over and over — kicking, biting, and crashing into furniture. I couldn’t look — I ran back to my bed, and pulled the covers over my head. The Beast was bigger than Daddy, and I knew that Daddy couldn’t win the battle.

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When I looked out again, the Beast was wearing Daddy’s clothes, and tearing up the house — smashing pictures, ripping cushions, breaking everything in sight. It took food out of the refrigerator, and threw it all over the walls and floor. My Mom calmed the Beast down. Finally it fell asleep — snoring and drooling on the couch.

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In the morning, Dad was asleep on the couch. He was wearing his own clothes again. And he looked very confused. “Who broke the lamp and tore up the room?” he asked in an angry voice. “The Beast did it.” my Mother said. Daddy stared at it. Now the Beast seemed like a plastic toy again. “I’m in control of my Beast. Why didn’t you call me? I would have stopped it,” he said. “We couldn’t find you, Daddy.” I told him.

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A few nights later, Daddy didn’t come home after work. But while we were getting ready for bed, the Beast came roaring in, wearing Daddy’s torn up clothes. It took a drink out of the bottle it was carrying, and grew so big that the clothes ripped and fell on the floor. He turned towards us, switching his tail and snarling. My Mom ran to stop him, but he knocked her down. Buster, my dog, bit the Beast on its leg and hung on, but the Beast kicked him across the room.

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That gave my Mom time to pull us into the bathroom. She locked the door and called 911. The Beast raged outside. We could hear things breaking. It broke a hole through the door and reached in trying to find us.

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But then we could hear the siren of the Beast Control car, and we could see a blue flashing light on the window. We heard men taking the Beast away. When it was quiet again, we knew it was safe to come out. Mom made us hot milk and sang to us until we fell asleep. 23

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In the days that followed, we all worked to put the house in order. We brought the dog home from the vet. He had broken ribs, but he was getting better. My Mom had to find a job so that we could have food, and pay the bills. We all missed my Dad. But we did not miss the Beast. It had hurt all of us, but we knew that it had hurt Daddy, too. “You must not stop loving your Father,” my Mother told us every night. “He needs our love as much as we need his.”

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It was six weeks before my Dad came home again. We cried and hugged each other. He brought the Beast home with him, but it was very small again, as it had been in the beginning. “I will never, ever feed the Beast again,” said Daddy. And he put it back into its box, so that he could not hear it whining. Our family is happy again.

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Several nights a week Dad goes to meetings. Other people who attend the meeting have their Beasts locked in containers too. They tell each other stories about the damage their Beasts did. They remind each other to make sure that the Beasts never get out of their cages to do destructive things again.

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About the Beast The Beast is ancient. It first appeared on Earth when people started crushing grapes to make alcohol. Not all Beasts are alike, but they do have some things in common. The Beast will not obey anyone’s rules or laws. The Beast is voracious. It will do anything to get the thing it craves. It has an expandable stomach — there is never enough of what it needs. It will keep growing bigger and more vicious, for as long as it is fed. It will cheat and steal, even from its own children. The Beast has a forked tongue. It will lie about everything. It cannot be killed, but it will kill its victim and hurt all those who love him. The Beast cannot love ANYONE because it has no heart. It will never apologize for the damage it did yesterday or the ugly things it said last night; it does not remember what it did. It may even do tricks to make you laugh and want to play with it again. There is only one way to control the Beast. It can be put back in its box or bottle by the person who owns it. He can keep it there as long as he does not feed it. People who have made this decision can seek the company of others for support and courage to keep the Beast from ever doing harm again.

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This book has been created to bring you hope. It may not look like a true story but it is based on the experiences of many people who have managed to lock their Beasts in cages. So it is a patchwork or “collage.” To represent a diversity of experiences, I created the illustrations as a patchwork or collage using cut or torn pieces of paper. All the papers were made by hand from natural fibers such as rice or mulberry. The papers came from different countries — China, Japan, Africa, and Thailand. In each country, the papers were made to allow light to pass through. In China this paper has been used to make lanterns. Some Japanese people still live in houses with paper windows. In Thailand, paper balloons more than four feet across are sent into the night sky to celebrate holidays. If your world seems dark because someone you love is under the influence of a Beast, understand that you are not alone. There are people who will help you find a path back into the light.

The author wishes to express her appreciation to the Wake County Alcoholic Beverage Control Board for providing a grant to print My Father’s Beast and distribute it to nonprofit organizations in Wake County.

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