Two.
I don’t remember how old I was when he first hit me. Maybe six, seven, eight. I don’t remember what I’d done to provoke him. I don’t even see this memory from the first person point of view. I see it like I’m a moviegoer, watching the scene unfold with horrorstruck eyes, like I’m an intruder in someone else’s life.
His face is twisted in anger, his lip curled up in disgust at me. Spit flies from his mouth as he yells, waving his hands all over the place. I don’t remember what he was saying. The movie is a silent one.
But his mouth is moving and he’s yelling. And yelling. And yelling.
He scares me, like nothing’s ever scared me before. He’s a giant, towering over me, completely in control. He could do anything to me. He could kill me, if he wanted. And irrationally, I’m afraid he will.
Every time he steps towards me, I step away. But he keeps advancing. I want to curl up in a ball and hide from him. I want to run away. I want him to stop screaming. I want us to be a normal, happy family, one without all the shouting. I’m sure the neighbors can hear him.
But they don’t. There’s no one who’s going to rescue me from his wrath.
And then he raises his hand and hits me. Not a punch, not a slap. Just a hit. And my cheek is stinging, and the tears are falling freely, jolted loose from the impact. And he’s still angry, still yelling, not bothered in the least by what he’d just done. I try to turn away, but he grabs my wrist. He’s still yelling. How can he still be yelling? How is his voice not gone? How does he hurt without caring?
He pushes me away.
I flee.
I don’t remember how old I was when he first hit me. Maybe six, seven, eight. I don’t remember what I’d done to provoke him. I don’t even see this memory from the first person point of view. I see it like I’m a moviegoer, watching the scene unfold with horrorstruck eyes, like I’m an intruder in someone else’s life.
His face is twisted in anger, his lip curled up in disgust at me. Spit flies from his mouth as he yells, waving his hands all over the place. I don’t remember what he was saying. The movie is a silent one.
But his mouth is moving and he’s yelling. And yelling. And yelling.
He scares me, like nothing’s ever scared me before. He’s a giant, towering over me, completely in control. He could do anything to me. He could kill me, if he wanted. And irrationally, I’m afraid he will.
Every time he steps towards me, I step away. But he keeps advancing. I want to curl up in a ball and hide from him. I want to run away. I want him to stop screaming. I want us to be a normal, happy family, one without all the shouting. I’m sure the neighbors can hear him.
But they don’t. There’s no one who’s going to rescue me from his wrath.
And then he raises his hand and hits me. Not a punch, not a slap. Just a hit. And my cheek is stinging, and the tears are falling freely, jolted loose from the impact. And he’s still angry, still yelling, not bothered in the least by what he’d just done. I try to turn away, but he grabs my wrist. He’s still yelling. How can he still be yelling? How is his voice not gone? How does he hurt without caring?
He pushes me away.
I flee.
