Unknown
When I was four years old I witnessed my dad hitting my mom violently with his bare hands. I stared through the small c***k of the open door, shaking in fright. I didn’t know what was going on, from my dad always being so friendly, with big toothy grins and contagious laughs to this red faced vein bulging monster. I wanted to do something. I wanted to help mom get her frightened expression of her face. I deeply wanted to save her but I was too scared. I was afraid of my dad and what he could do to me. And from dad day I labled myself as a stupid coward not even being able to confront my dad, whatsover stand up for my mom.
At five my dad disappeared, bringing peace to our home. Except I never found peace in my mind as I remembered my dad’s voice vividly every single day in
