I was born without hands. My arms stop just above where my elbows would be if I had them. Despite this, my mother loved me. I don’t remember much of her face, but I can still remember her warmth as she hugged me. Sometimes, I think her scent still lingers in this shack I am hesitant to call home.
I cannot say the same for my father, however. I am cautious of him. As a large man, his hits crash down on me like mountains, and he is prone to drunken rages. I am careful when I move. He lies there on the ground surrounded by empty liquor bottles. If I wake him, I’ll earn a fist. If I talk back, I’ll earn a fist. If he sees me, I’ll earn a fist. For a man who can only stumble around in a spirit induced stupor, he has a surprising amount of accuracy. Not that I try and dodge. That will earn me a fist, too, but I used to, when I was younger and didn’t know better.