I was at home when it happened. A knock on the door, a quiet conversation, and tears. Mom came back from the door and said that father was hurt badly. He had shattered his arm, and would be unable to work again if they had to amputate. Weeks passed, and father came back from the apothecary missing an arm. It only got worse from there. Willow-bark for the pain, alcohol for the stress, and abuse for the anger. Mom took it to begin with, probably protecting me. It wasn’t long before she had taken too much, and after an evening of shouting, she was gone. That’s when I became the target. It started as fists, but as time went on, it went from fists to wood, from wood to bottles. The bottles were the most dangerous, the only weapons he got the chance to use that could draw blood. I learned to stay clear of him for the most part, but he could learn new tricks too. He may have lost an arm, but his other was still strong… and accurate. The bottle hit me square in the head, then shattered. I still bear the scar, and my eye... Well, I ran off, and this time I didn’t go back.
The family had been shattered anyway.
