Apparently, at some point during my seventh birthday, a female work acquaintance of my father slapped me across the face. I don’t mean a backhand to shut me up, either. Something about me being mean to her child. After that, I ran back to my home and cried under my bed until my father found me. He wasn’t present at the time and demanded to know who had hit me, but nobody would tell him, likely because he’d have probably beaten her into a hospital bed.
I say “apparently” because I have absolutely no recollection of that night, other than the fact that there might have been a bonfire. My father brought it up one time when I was around fifteen and I got a hollow feeling in my chest and my blood started boiling, but no memories surfaced at all.
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