My Father Tears His Face Off

I remember how surprised and frightened we all were, the first time my father tore off his own face. He did it because no one had done the dishes. He was angry. Both of his fists were clenched next to his forehead. His fingers dug into the flesh, just below his hairline, and tore open a wound. Blood ran down his face in streams. He pulled at the skin, and there was a ripping sound.

He roared in anger: “No one does anything around here! You are all spoiled! Lazy! Useless!”

His face came off like a ragged sheet of paper — forehead, eyelids, nose, lips, all the way down to his chin. He held his face in his hands like a rubber mask. The front of his head was a ragged red hole of blood, muscle, two lidless eyes, and shiny white teeth. We all froze in place, gawking at him, not knowing what to do or say.

With a roar, dad threw his face across the kitchen. The bloody pink lump hit the refrigerator door with a splat, and stuck there. Then my father turned around and stomped out. He went up the stairs to his bedroom and slammed the door closed.

Well, that’s it, we all thought. Now dad doesn’t have a face. But his face grew back, and surprisingly quickly. In two days, you couldn’t even tell he’d torn his face off. He was back to normal.