It won't go away. The memories of the pain, the bruises, the screaming remains apart of us forever. A mother and three kids, the victims of your brutality. Nothing will ever erase those painful memories. A bully. You were a bully. How many times did you say you hated bullies? And yet you became one. Being thrown up against a wall, kicked, slapped, screamed at, called names, this affected all of us. Late nights crying, wishing for a better life for all of us. But the worst part was, the forgiveness. After you would beat us, call us names, throw our stuff away, throw us away, a little at a time, we forgave you, everytime. We momentarily forgot the pain, because we believed in a healthy family. But no. You kept on. Waking up in a bad mood? It was the children's fault. The cat threw up, "Where's my belt?". We're done. Your lonely now. But nobody cares. Eighteen years of my life were spent in pain and misery. Teachers asking about my home life. Your "baby" escaped from you, now he is actually passing his classes. He is happy. I am happy. Mom is happy. Kota is happy. We're all out of the reach of your swinging hands. I failed because of you. But I picked myself back up. But the memories don't stop. The things people say to us, trigger memories, painful memories. The nightmares, waking up crying, but the forgiveness, hurts more than anything. I just want to go back sometimes, hug you, and tell you I'm sorry, for what, I don't know. I want to have a dad. Somebody to support me, and cheer me on, that's why I kept forgiving you. The thought of not having a father was more painful than the bruises, or the belt, or the head-locks, or the pushing, or the slapping, or the kicking, the insults, the broken promises, the lies, the banging against the wall, your suspicion. All of it, the idea of not having a father hurt worse. Last night I woke up crying. The week before, I dreamed you died.
