Please, no! Please, I’m sorry. Mama! Mama! Please!” I’m lying on my bed as I was ordered, pleading frantically as I’ve done many times before. I’m dreading the familiar scene, even though it’s unfolding right in front of me. He grabs my ankle and tugs me sharply toward the foot of the bed. I have to resist the urge to pull my feet away. I know that it will be worse if I do. I’m crying so hard I can’t catch my breath as he uses my skipping rope to bind my feet to the bed. He picks up his favourite orange plastic stick. It replaced the wood ones that kept breaking. At first I was glad, as this
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