When I was five, I saw my mother kill my father. I watched as she sat over him yelling, and stabbing him in the chest. She then called 'uncle' Jerry who came over and took him away. We never talked about that night. On the few occasions I mentioned him without thinking, she just said, "He's gone, and we have to get on with our lives."
I knew why she did it. It was because he used to beat her almost every night. I remember that she was nice to me and gave me a lot of things, but that didn't stop me from being afraid. For years I thought that if I did something wrong, she would kill me too.
Mom went over to 'Uncle' Jerry's house a lot for a few years, and then one day she said that he had left and that we wouldn't be seeing him any more. I asked her, "Do you mean he's 'Gone'?"
She looked at me strangely and said, "Yes." So I figured she'd killed him too.
As I got older, I spilled juice on the rug, broke her glass unicorn, and ...
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