Our earliest recollections from childhood often involve a vivid sensation that pains, excites or shocks us into self-awareness.
Sometimes, what occurs is brutal.
This is the story of my first memory.
She was bleeding from both brows and pumping her legs against the slick vinyl floor when I entered. With her back pressed to the kitchen cabinets, this woman kicked like she was trying to save herself from dropping off a cliff. Elegant fingers, with bitten-down nails and knobby knuckles, clawed at the countertop above. Tangled at her breast was her hair, grown long since college with hanging, breezing bangs. They were plastered to her temples now, blood-soaked to the color black. Her eyes were mouths to the mascara rivers running down her cheeks. This woman’s small frame froze when the man standing near came closer.
He grabbed something from the oak table in the center of the kitchen. His…
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