Understand, I grew up in a broken home. I hated it whenever the folks started fighting. In my little bed, I’d plug my ears so I wouldn’t hear the punches landing and the groans from the pain. Dad would usually take a few dozen hard shots before he’d lose it and hoist Mom out the door for a helicopter toss into the bushes. Things would get pretty quiet at that point and I’d go to sleep. It was seriously traumatic though, I mean it. Real talk.
This one’s from the heart.