May. 19th, 2012

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I REALLY hate this prompt. I lay in bed Thursday night and thought about it. Of course, that giant lockbox in my head securing my childhood popped open. I could go head to head with other entrants about physical and psychological abuse in my childhood from the favored thick belt that didn’t stop until clothes shredded and skin flayed, from broken bones such as a hammer on a thin arm on a table, or trying to put a small hand into a garbage disposal while it ran. I could go on and on in gruesome detail. The demon was inventive. I thought it was my fault; I loved her until I was seventeen, no matter what she did. She was so beautiful on the outside and so evil inside. But she made me strong, a protector of my sisters, and a fighter. I do what I do because of what she did to me. So don’t pity that child. She is alive and the demon is dead. My sisters are alive.
That story goes back in the box with new shiny locks.

This was my anti-entry, Gary.

THIS IS MY ENTRY

HERE )

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