it all started when I was about five...perhaps six, when my father first got too rough.
I snuck up behind him and simply said "I love you." He pulled me from behind and punched me, hard, in the stomach. i begant to cry, sobbing uncontrollably you might say. He hugged me, told me to "suck it up" and said that I was fine. This would define our relationship for the next seven years. At this moment, my heart towards him grew as cold and heavy as the Titanic. I kept this to myself, figuring he wouldn't do it again. However I was completely wrong.
It happened every time he got a chance, each time worse than the last...I would end up with big bruises. Terrified of what he might do, I kept these "incidents" to myself. My Grandmother, Debbie, told me I deserved it, and, naturally, I believed her.
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