He would beat me. Every day. No remorse. No guilt. Just a sick smile every time the stick hit my delicate skin. A sick, sick smile. I couldn't think. But that just made him angrier. He liked watching me cry. Now, as I watch his lifeless body before me. I remembered how he hurt me. Mercilessly. And how he touched me. Cuts and bruises still on my body. I tried to push him away. But he was stronger. I heard he got divorced not too long ago. That made me smile. A sick, sick smile.
probably one of my favourites in terms of storytelling, as this part shows how our childhoods are very important in shaping who we are, as you will see later on
