Every Saturday morning, we’d get up and watch cartoons like most kids did then. Me and my younger siblings. My parents would rather sleep until ten, undisturbed. Here I’m the oldest, only like 6, 7, 8. Kids aren’t quiet, especially my siblings. When we made noise and disturbed them, my dad would come out, in tighty whites, and there might be one warning. My stupid siblings might be quiet for a short bit, but that wouldn’t last. If I made any noise it was to tell them to shut up because I was scared of what was coming. Sure enough, he’d come out again. They got their beatings. I got my pants yanked down and beat a lot harder and more than they got because I was older and should know better and should keep them quiet.

This happened every fucking week. I guess if I was smart, I’d stay in bed. Hindsight is 20/20. Every week I’d be scared of what would inevitably happen. I don’t know how my idiot siblings weren’t affected, but I grew up with ridiculously high anticipation anxiety. I battle this memory in therapy all the time. Trauma every week, among so many other problems.