4. Making beds.

The fourth thing that reminds me of Him is making beds.

I’m almost adverse to doing this task now.

For the twelve years I lived alone with my father, day to day chores became a huge struggle for me as my father found this an easy way to assert power and control. He did it with everything but making beds was by far one of the worst chores I had to do.

My father’s O.C.D was beyond saving. He was a complete control freak. I never met his standards in any way. He was so watchful and ready to pounce on me for every mistake.

I learnt that certain chores needed to be done in secret. That way, he would be unable to hover and criticise whilst I was doing them. I would only have to suffer his assessment after.

He often examined my bed making skills. His favourite insult for me was “pig” in reference to that fact that he thought I was dirty: of mind mostly but it did not stop him from finding fault in the way I lived too. As I did a lot of chores behind his back and in hiding, including clothes washing, he would assume I did not wash my clothes at all. Not the case of course. When I did justify myself, explaining I had done it when he was out, a disbelieving puff of air would leave his inconsiderate mouth.

He began monitoring my chores.

He hated that way I made my bed.

At 22 years old my father called me up to the spare room. He had stripped the perfectly made bed bare. He stated I was to make the bed. As I looked down to the carpet at the freshly clean sheets I was confused and immediately worried.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you are clearly incapable of making your bed. This way you can learn. Unless you don’t want to learn? That wouldn’t surprise me either”.

“I know how to make a bed”.

“Do you? Have you seen your bed? The sheets aren’t tucked in properly, the duvets hanging off the bed”.

“That happened in the night. That happens when you sleep.” I frantically tried to save myself from humiliation.

“Are you being sarcastic? Are you? Don’t make me angry,” he threatened.

I gave in.

I picked up the first sheet and placed it on the bed. My heart was racing as he just studied my every move. I tucked it in thinking I had finished the first part of the job. I reached for the second sheet.

“Excuse me? What is this?” he interrupted, “You are not finished. Tuck it in properly.”

“It is finished”. I answered abruptly.

“Babitago!” the name he called me that sent shivers in my soul.

I continued to pick up the second sheet. My blood was boiling too. I was also about to burst. I carefully avoided his frightening gaze and continued with my work. Once I had finished and ignored his examination I left the room whilst he carried on talking and evaluating my poor effort. As I walked away, my father lost his temper. I eased myself into my bedroom and quickly locked the door. I knew he would follow.

The door shook as he threw his hands violently against it, screaming Indian swears at me. I hid in my badly made bed and blocked out the words.

He ignored me for the rest of the week.

After that incident, every time he made the bed in the spare room, I was called to help.

I avoid making beds now.

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