My mother and father were fighting again. My dad started it, he always started it. Not only an alcoholic but one of the worst people I have ever had the displeasure of meeting, with all the qualities in a person you'd want to avoid. My brother and I shared a room so I'd simply tell him to put on something on the TV, everything is going to be okay. When their fighting would go to their room I would grab my little sister and bring her into my room too. The fighting would only ever escalate. Shoving, throwing things, one parent locking out the other. I had a bat in my room, or really just a thick tree branch from outside, me and the other kids used to play fight with them. But as my siblings would play video games I would sit patiently by my door, hoping that my father wouldn't come in. What would I do? Really? A kid with barely any meat on his bones with a tree branch clutched ever so tightly in his hands. I'd sometimes have to stop guard and go calm down one of my siblings. Hoping their crying wouldn't attract the attention of on my my parents. Dad always used us as ammunition against my mother.