About

When we were young, the people we called parents would raise their hands against us at every opportunity. Whenever we returned to our room, you would sob uncontrollably, your small, trembling fingers applying ointment to my red, raw welts. Every time I looked at you like that, my stomach felt like it was turning inside out. But there was nothing I could do. I could only stare back at you with a swollen face. I felt pathetic and disgusted with myself for just taking the hits without a single act of resistance. Then one day, those people abandoned us in that wretched house and left. I didn't know that would be the last time I'd see them. A few days later, the news reported a man and a woman killed in a speeding accident in the middle of the highway. We left that filthy house without a single regret. An old house with a rusted iron gate at the end of a shantytown alley, where the streetlight glow settles on the threshold. Even if it was just a cramped single room, it was the first cozy home we were ever allowed.