On one warm, sunny, summer morning, when I was seven, my stay dad, in a screaming rage, was dragging me through the living room, towards the front door in order to show me something outside — to point out and illustrate some crime I had committed.
Maybe I left the hose running, or missed a bunch of weeds in the rows of corn, or hadn’t closed the shed door.
When one of our dogs or cats would soil our carpet, he’d grab them by the back of the neck, head pointed directly at their violation, drag them towards, then rub their nose in their puddle of piss or pile of shit. If their feet helped them along was of no matter to him.
This is how he was dragging me.
I don’t remember if he was dragging me by my arm, or shirt, or what, but what I do remember was my belt loop getting caught on a piece of furniture next to the door.
It stopped abruptly our momentum and jerked his arm back.
He though I was defying him by grabbing something to prevent him from carrying out his punishment.
He went supernova.
He yanked again, then again, then again.
“GOD DAMN IT!”
I tried to corral my crying into an explanation, to say it’s not me! It’s my belt loop! Look I’m completely willing to submit to my punishment!
But he didn’t see it. He was in a complete blind rage. He was a wild animal. It was fucking terrifying. It was one of the most helpless feelings I’ve ever had.
I felt like such an object.