Running...

My little feet slapped the cold hard surface of the evening tar road. That's all I could see. I was about 70m from the next street light, under one that was dead and scared half to death. Adrenaline pumped my brain to hazardous decisions and yet still, with all my might, I ran with tears falling sideways.

I ran a lot, playing soccer with the tree and I'd score, or when I'm racing the boys in the neighborhood trying to beat them and as a girl, be the fastest of them all. In all the other times, it was easy. This time, too much air was entering my lungs, I'd lost my shoes somewhere and the stones under the tar had no mercy for my soft sores.

I feared that a gun was pointed at the back of my head and in a second I'd drop to the ground in a sad fashion scrapping some skin off my exposed flesh. So I ran, for my life, for my freedom, for a chance to be without the monster or maybe the Angel of death that stood in the shadows behind.

Looking back, I could have taken different options. I could have talked him out of it, I could have stayed and joined him in the masquerade of self-distraction or perhaps self preservation. Instead I ran for an end, or a beginning, for a silent existence wishing that it would all lead to that.

Would you then say my silent wish that my father kept his word and actually killed himself is what made him eventually do it? Would that make me a murderer? Is it pragmatic to say that it was okay to not want him alive for everything he did to the people I love?

He claimed that his abuse wasn't actually abuse but an act of love. 

What is love?

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter"