“But what if dad starts doing drugs again?” I remember when I was 10 and the air in the kitchen was thick with the sound of sobs and freshly blooming bruises.
I remember playing with this small, circle shaped scar on my wrist. 10 years later I still remember how it felt. Sharp and hot and you mumbled, “sorry” as you swayed on the spot and your blood shot eyes tried to focus. And I said, “it's okay, dad” and I made sure not to cry until I made it to my room.
I remember feeling so helpless when I watched in slow motion as you grabbed her throat and the fear in her eyes when she hit the wall. I hope I never see that apartment again.
I remember Christmas Eve and we were frozen watching you run down the stairs and scramble to put on my brother's coat. And mom screamed, “you're not taking him!” and you called her a bitch and ran out and your tires screeched and she broke down. Her cheek was all red and I remember wondering why.
“But what if dad starts doing drugs again?” I don't want to remember. I don't want these memories. I can't do it again. What if dad starts doing drugs again? I'll break.