My mother was always the nicest lady. She never yelled, or hit, or argued. She simply did what my father told her to do without resistance. My father, however, wasn't so.

He was the rudest, cruelest man I knew at the time. My Mom would take constant beatings from him, and I'd often see bruises on her. When I'd ask where she got them, she'd just pretend to laugh and tell me that she fell down stairs at work.

We both knew, though, that it was a lie. She didn't even get to go to work because she was pregnant, and because my father wouldn't let her leave the house. He was a coward, afraid to let her out in the constant fear that she'd tell about his abuse to both me and her.

To me, at the time, it was mostly only verbal abuse. He'd tell and shout at me, and tell me that I was a mistake. He'd tell me that my Mom was pathetic and horrible.

Honestly, I'm convinced that he was trying to make me grow up to be like him. And, in a way, he did. I'd never admit it to his face, though, that he actually had an effect on my behaviour.

Then he'd actually be proud of me. That's the one thing I want the least. He didn't need to know that he'd driven me to kill. All he needed to know that I'd run away, and that I wouldn't return.