“Rub some dirt in it.”

That’s what my father always told me. He said that after he would beat me with a belt. Of course only in places that could be covered with clothes.

He told me the more tears I shed, the more hits I deserved.

“I’m raising a man, not a sissy!” He’d yell.

My mother couldn’t save me, she tried once and now she’s sleeping with the angels. I never got to truly mourn her, the sense got beat out of me whenever I brought her up. I was 10.

My life was hell until I turned 18. The age of an adult, according to the law. But I’d been grown long before that time. Pain was all I knew from my father. Fear controlled my every move. I guess that’s why I never ran away.

But now here I am, 22. Haven’t seen my old man since I left after graduation. The way he cheered when I got my diploma, he really had everyone around him fooled into thinking he was a good father.

Now, as I sit in this church pew, for the first time in… well I’m not sure how long. Hot, salty tears burn my cheeks. The Pastor gives me a look of sympathy. He probably thinks these are tears of sorrow. But really, they’re tears of freedom.