Doing this mainly to start the process of sharing past traumas with other people since this is a safe place. This is a little bit about my parents when I was young. If you read it, thanks for listening.
-Cindy

Once, back at the Rockaway house, after he’d gone on a rampage, throwing and smashing every breakable in his reach, I’d seen him pin her to the wall halfway down the stairs and hold a Dunkin’ Donuts Munchkins box before her.
“What does ‘iss say?” he demanded. She looked like there was no fight in her and even though she didn’t answer, he knocked her head against the wall, which started my crying. I was watching from up in my room. He let her go and when she’d gone back into their bedroom he looked up at me.
“**** you, Cindy,” he shouted. I was six years old.
It would be years before our mom filed for divorce. On the surface, she tolerated his abuse but inside her anger was ready to blow out like a hot tire on the freeway. By seven o’clock one night when Dad was out solid, snoring on the floor in the living room, Mom told me and Chris,
“We’re going out, to talk. Let’s go.” She drove us to Denny’s for a meal we couldn’t eat for nervousness. She had a plan.
“I think we should kill him,” she said. “Chris agrees. What do you think?” she asked me. I imagine all three of us stalking him with a knife and pushing his body into a trash can after the unthinkable act. The newspaper story would tell how a harried mother and her two young children had murdered their own kin. Bad idea, I thought but didn’t want to appear mutinous, so I shrugged, which drew scorn. Mom’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” she asked.