User:HideandLeek

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The day I was born in 1984 was the day that Sandinista Front won the elections in Nicaragua.

My first memory was my father burning my back with a cigarette. He used to wear an old electrical cord from a box-fan for a belt, and to this day I have faded scars from the prongs in odd places all over my body, like the two thin lines you see above my right eyebrow.

When he was really into the sauce, he'd grab me by the neck and add to the burn from that first cigarette. If I broke a plate, he burned me with a cigarette. If I cried when he beat me, he burned me with a cigarette. If he couldn't steal or beg enough money for booze, I hid, but he always found me, and there was always a lit cigarette waiting.

By the time I went to elementary school, there were over 100 burns on my back in the shape of a model Swastika. Our house was right down the road from the YMCA pool, but I never went. He said if I showed the scars to anyone he'd kill my mother and make me watch, then kill me. Then he laughed and said he might do it anyway, then he burned me again, I was his canvas.

The social workers came, but they didn't take me away from him. They saw the bottles all over the house, they saw the track marks on my mother's arms, they saw that I was filthy and cut up, and they told my father that I had to go to elementary school. I still don't remember what happened after they left, I don't wanna.

They tested me and they were surprised to find that I could read, write, and do math though I'd never been to school. I wasn't, he made my mother teach me to read, and had me read out of Mein Kampf to him and his Nazi friends. God help me if I ever stumbled.

I had a little Hitler Youth uniform that he said was priceless, but it was tattered wreck and too small, and I was terrified that a seam would burst or a button would pop in front of his cronies and they'd beat me to death. Once the armpit of the shirt tore when I was made the Nazi salute at the end of "nation and race", but he didn't notice, he was too busy cheering.

Sometimes he'd point his old Luger at me, and order me to make a speech right there, if I wasn't a race traitor. It's no suprise that I've always been able to speak off the cuff and that I make all my speeches from memory, thanks dad.

I learned math from counting change. He'd send me out to get his liquor and the only place that'd let me buy it tried to (Personal attack removed) me every single time. If I came back with a cent less than the price of his swill the swastika would grow.

Later, I learned that if I stole the liquor instead I could use the money to eat. When my mother finally got to strung out to stand in the welfare lines that was all I could get, it was never enough.

They put me in school, the other kids laughed at me because my clothes were torn and I stank. After class, I beat the living shit out of them, nobody laughed then. I took their money, their clothes, everything. Some of the kids were bigger than me, but none of them were hungrier.

On my tenth birthday, my mother died. I got beaten for it. Him screaming his stale liquor breath in my face how it was all my fault, pistol whipping me the Luger and threatening to kill me. I remember him pointing the gun at me, cocking it, and I watched his hands shake realizing for the first that my father was a coward. He still beat the living shit out of me.

In high school, I pilfered lockers, organized walk-outs, punk rock shows, shop-lifted, covered the town with graffiti, anything. I spent more time in Juvi than out. I was 14 years old when I stole my first car, and it took