“I was…” It was so difficult, so impossible to continue, but I did, my voice so quiet I wondered if he could even hear it, “I was sick of the bruises.” I was crying again, turning away from him.
The silence was deafening. The only sound was an occasional sniffle from me as I tried to make the tears go away. It was ridiculous to cry, I was stronger than that.
“Bruises?” his voice was soft, he was standing indecisively in the middle of the kitchen, half-reaching forward, as though he wanted to comfort me, but he didn’t know how, or if he should.
“My father,” I spat the word, “Does not agree with me on several subjects. His temper is short, and his reactions are often violent. I managed to lie to myself long enough, giving him excuses in my head. Work was difficult; his last movie had gotten bad reviews; his views were logical: I should go into the movie business or whatever he wanted. But I didn’t want to, and he couldn’t stand it,” I sobbed, “So he’d hit me. And finally, after one night, I left.”