I was only four years old.

It's 24 degrees out, and it has been snowing nonstop since early yesterday, December 5th. Let's not start here.
It might have been a Monday, but it could have been a Thursday or Saturday. It was most likely a Friday. I was spending one of the last few days with my Father. He was a troublemaker, and he did a lot of drugs. I don't think that he knew the difference between right and wrong. I didn't either, I was only four years old.
I have flashbacks- vivid ones- about the memories of that side of the family. I remember my Father smashing the beer bottle. The things I shouldn't have seen, the things he never should have said. I refuse to become what he was. A crackhead, a junkie, a thief, a psycho.
On a better note, I'm living with my mother and grandma.


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