And then eventually enough blows would have fallen and the ritual would be over. I was allowed to go to my bed, or sometimes, I was forced to stand at attention in the center of the living room, with my pants still down, my hands clasped behind me, until my legs shook. I remember, from the earliest age, teaching myself how to disassociate, consciously schooling myself in the art of leaving my own body to hover somewhere close to the ceiling. Looking back, I can recall it all clearly from an aerial view, my father’s face suffused with blood, purple with exertion, his eyebrows drawn in
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