I remember when I was little, around about seven or eight years old, seeing my parents fight. It wasn't anything new, just that it started affecting me and catching my attention around that age. It'd always be on a weekend or more specifically on a Friday night because my dad got paid weekly so every Friday was always the same.
He'd buy some liquor from the local bottle store and with the slightly pleading undertones of my mother's encouragement to get some for her, he'd go along. He'd come back sometimes, sometimes he didn't until either the next day or a late Sunday night. When he did come back, I knew it was only a matter of time before their talks of nostalgia would turn into a squabble over past circumstances between them.
They both weren't the most level headed people and they were worse when intoxicated. They both had a lot of bottled aggression in them that they never dealt with in a healthy way so every weekend they'd take it out on one another I guess. My dad was the violent one though more often than not. I'd never really get angry at my mom when she did though because she cared for me to an extent, but I can never recall a time he did the same unless it was to convince me that my mother was the bad person.
Violence was never a thing to hype me up then and I was actually very much against it, but I remember when things would get out of hand to the point where there'd be blood, screaming and serious bruises and I wanted so badly, more than anything to be grown so I could protect my mother. To beat the shit out of my dad for laying his hands on her, for making her cry and scream in agony. Sometimes I'd lash out in those moments and I'd get involved and sometimes he'd hurt me but only to get me to back down so he could get back to hurting her. In those moments, my awareness of how weak and vulnerable I was became so apparent to me, overwhelmingly so, and I'd cry for hours but I'd always have a ball of rage in the pit of my stomach and I never knew just how to deal with it so I'd cry till I could sleep.
Then sometime I'd find myself in these fits of rage after those nights. I'd either find myself punching some wall or just anything and I wouldn't remember anything before that. Sometimes it was too much for me to handle and it'd be hard to breath. I'd hyperventilate and suffocate on the rage and I'd have a seizure.
I remember a time when my family was over and my brother, whom was four years older than me, was playing with me. He was chasing me down our landlords small yard in a game of "catch" and I remember the feeling of undying and never ending happiness. I felt free and everything just didn't seem to matter. Then I realised I had reached a dead end and couldn't turn back to run without him catching me. I was caught. For some reason, that enraged me. I couldn't stand the idea of him laying his hands on me even to just tap me. Then I punched him in the face.
The world seemed to slow down as I realised what I'd done. My heart seemed to stop beating for a split second and my eyes were in excruciating pain because of how wide I opened them and my body seemed to freeze but not from the cold of the night. I stared at my brothers pained and angered gaze with a pleading and helpless one of my own. He then kicked me in the balls.
The pain should have been the main focus on my mind but the reminder of how weak I was when I sunk to the soft blades of grass was more painful than anything. Then I realised my cousins watched the whole debacle and something else drove me to tears. I hated the façade of laughter and amusement in their eyes but what hurt more was the undertones of pity.
Then I sat there for several minutes and I repeatedly slammed my head against the ground and everything else was a blur.
