Of course timing had the ability to be oh so coincedental. I heard the sound of the garage door opening but made no plans on making any movements. As the roar of the motorcycle died I remained standing in the same position, knife still in my left hand, blood still dripping to the floor.

The door opened, and hell broke loose. Jan screamed from the sight and then collasped to the floor, and once my dad saw me and what happened to Jan, he screamed…but for different reasons, “You stupid piece of shit. Do you see what you’ve done?” He acknowledge the fainted form of Jan, “And look at all the blood you got on the floor,” He approached me and ripped the knife out of my hand, “Now clean it up.”

I did nothing of the sort, and instead looked up into his cold eyes, “Didn’t you hear me? I said clean it up!” And he slammed me in the gut, making me double over, and shoved my face into the floor, into my blood.

And, without crying a single tear, I cleaned my blood up.

And so the physical beatings begun.