At 8 years old I would wrestle with my dad in the middle of the family room floor. He'd tickle me and giggles would pop out of my mouth like bubbles being poked at by little kids at a parade. I danced a lot when I was younger and did advanced classes on Monday nights and Wednesday nights. My dad would take me in his red mustang and we'd listen to Metallica and scream the lyrics at the top of our lungs like we were at a concert and we would smile and laugh. He'd sit in at my classes and I could see the pride and joy in his face when he would see me tap my feet. When I was 9 is stare at the spot he used to sit and try to stop the tears as the music played in the background of the metal hitting the floor. Metallica didn't sound the same until I was 13. I moved in with him and the smell of alcohol stained my nose and cheap perfume filled the rooms. My fingers were sore from playing guitar and bruises scattered across my arms and ribs. We were just wrestling like we would when I was 8. I promise. At 16 I screamed and cried because my heart felt like it hurt as bad as my dads shoulder did after a 5 inch knife was plunged through it by the same woman who ruined my life at 9 years old. Alcohol took over his liver and a hole sank into his left shoulder an eighth of an inch away from him lungs. She was supposed to rot in jail but after 3 weeks she's been released and so help me god if I see her a 5 inch knife would be a good dream for her.
