When I was a young boy of about 8, my father got angry frequently. Very angry.
Angry enough to make me and my mother flee my old home, if you know what I mean.
One day, we were all curled up by the fire; whenever 'Daddy' got angry, he'd always relax afterwards, and apologize to both of us. He'd just done this act, when he fell asleep next to my mother.
I'd always had an interest in Art, so I took this as a good opportunity to have some sketching time. However, my sketchpad was very, very heavy, as it had like, 200 pages ... all waiting to be drawn upon. So I eagerly hauled it out of the cupboard ... but as I turned around with it, it dropped, BANG, onto the floorboards.
I guess I knew things would turn ugly at about that stage.
My father awoke with a start, as did my mum, but there was a difference between the two woken parents. One looked extremely steamed at me.
"Sorry!" I blurted out, backing away a little.
He got up calmly, and walked towards me very slowly. Then he struck me across the face.
The pain was indescribable ... not so much just physchially, but emotionally. My mother grabbed my hand, and ran with me.
I don't remember what happened next. All I remember is a blur of car transfers, my mum dropping me off at The Dumping Ground, saddened goodbyes.
At first I couldn't forgive my mum for doing what she did. But after a while, I understood. She didn't want me in a dangerous environment. She visited me frequently at the start, but then she moved up to Cornwall. That weekend, I got a postcard.
"Dear Crash,
I miss you so much, dear. I left your father, thank goodness. But I went up to Cornwall on my own, instead of coming for you at once, just to settle in with a few friends. I'll come and get you before Christmas dear. I will. And you'll love it up here with me and Sally - remember her? She visited us when you were just a little child. You were so cute.
See you soon!
Mum."
She never came.
