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....
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