Dodged A Bullet (Or A Fist)

We lived in the same house for over a decade when I was a child, and I’d long since memorized the layout well enough that I could have run the hall blindfolded, which I sort of did. My father was quite insistent on not wasting electricity on extra lights, so when I decided to head upstairs for the night through darkened hallways, rather than having to turn on and then back off a half-dozen lights along my way, I’d generally trust to my memory — and a protective raised hand in case I misjudged the distance — to make it upstairs without the lights.

I was headed up to my bedroom one evening when I was an older teen. There was enough light still filtering in from the windows to sort of make out the halls downstairs, but the light didn’t quite reach up the full length of the stairs to the hallway above. This time, as I approached said hallway, I suddenly had an overwhelming sense that there was some looming presence waiting for me in the darkness above.

Logically, I figured it had to be my imagination, so I wasn’t really scared. After all, it wasn’t as if someone could have snuck upstairs to wait in ambush without my noticing. Still, it could do no harm to humor my instincts; it might even provide a mildly amusing distraction to do so. So, even though, I was certain there was nothing to worry about, I still played along. I moved cautiously forward in a sort of lazy bastardization of a defensive fighting stance, not quite being willing to risk feeling stupid by taking on a full combat stance over something I was sure I was imagining. I even moved toward where my instincts told me the presence was, instead of going the opposite direction to my bedroom, to figure out what had been negligently left in the hallway that could have triggered my instincts.

It seems my subconscious must have detected some signs too subtle for my conscious mind to process because it turned out there was a looming presence, which suddenly charged at me as I approached it! With my body already primed and ready, my instincts took over, shifting my weight into a proper stance even as I started to launch a punch. While I’ll never claim to be a master martial artist, years of training had at least taught me how to throw a proper punch.

It was only after my instincts had taken over that my brain caught up. I realized the only people who could have reasonably made it upstairs without alarming me were the ones that were supposed to be there, and come to think of it, didn’t that dark figure charging at me have roughly the right size and bulk to be my father? With this realization, I tried to pull my punch, fighting against the momentum my punch had already built by then. I managed to slow it just enough that it was little more than a tap on my father’s stomach, light enough that he apparently brushed it off without realizing what it was as he started laughing and gloating that he had surprised me.

In actuality, between my first instinctual response and then my distracted attempt to stop it, I hadn’t had time to really register any fear. Instead, I told my father he nearly got punched, but my dad seem to think this was just me saving face and didn’t realize how serious I was about the warning. Realizing there was no way for me to prove how close my father had come to a solid punch to the gut, I gave up and went to my bedroom, letting my father have his undeserved sense of triumph at his ambush.

Yet the memory has still stuck with me, even decades later. There’s just something that amuses me about how undeserved his excitement was and just how close he was to regretting his ill-planned ambush. But sure, Dad, go ahead and think you won that round.