You've seen the danger signs before: the stains on his shirt, the slur of his voice, the smell of his breath, the blood on his fists. He needs to hit something, hit it again and again until it breaks. When he's like this, he destroys the possessions that cost him the most to obtain. Whatever's left that still holds value, still holds meaning, still holds his place in this world.
You are almost all he has left.
You remember fleeing up the stairs, scrambling awkardly on teenage hands and knees in your haste, the thin fabric of your skirt not enough to shield you from the incipient carpet burns.
You ran on bare feet down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind you, trusting in the spirit of propriety to keep your father from following you here, your last refuge.
Because if he finds you, he's going to kill you.
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