What Happened to Antonio Rodriquez?

Prologue

        Father wasn't always mean. He was nice when I was younger; always giving us candy and playing with us. But that was before June 27th.

 And it's a different time now.
 
My legs shake as cold air brushes against it, my fingernails tapping against my lap. 
 One, two, three, four. 
It was loud; too loud. At least in my head it was. They diagnosed me with PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and gave me medicine to control some symptoms. Psychotherapy three days a week, for two hours. They said I was lucky to still be alive; that it was one of the worst cases they've ever seen. My father messed me up since I was 7 years old. 

I sit in the wooden chair before standing up on it. 
 If only they could see me now.