Shattering ceramics, banging doors, angry voices, violent vibrations in the walls. A childhood bruised with the memories of the violence that came with it, is mine to keep. My mind is never really able to envision what life was like past all the screaming and shouting. Perhaps, that’s all there ever was.
From as far as I can remember, my Parents almost always fought about something. My father was the abusive drunkard you may familiarize from television. The kind that came home late every night to an angry wife and a scared kid. The kind that told lies to the woman he claimed to love. The kind that was seemingly always working late and never had time for family. The kind that would batter the two other members of his household one would expect him to love the most. But I guess nobody is perfect right?
I was the little boy that always ran. Playing several rounds of hide and seek with myself. I hid from the world in hope to find myself. I sought for comfort on the strings of my violin but still all the yelling rendered my melodies obsolete. I sat in dark and empty corners trying to understand the existence with which I had been burdened with. I sat in empty spaces hoping my father wouldn’t find me. I hid in the mango trees that coolly accommodated me in their shade. I read poetry in the chimney hoping I would burst in flames like the logs do. I was the little boy that always approached his father with great caution. I always made sure to avoid him when I could. I hid from all the pain.
I always ran. I often run from these memories.
Try not to judge me, old habits die hard right? I guess, I’ve always been a fugitive from the asperities of my reality. I have always been a runner.
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