My biological father, Max Humbart, used to beat my mother. That’s why she left. But it took her 5 and a half years to do so.
I used to watch from the corner of the living room as he shed her blood across our ragged carpet and beige colored walls. I’d listen from my room for the telltale signs that he was home, then I’d quietly…quietly, lock my door. I’d hear the sounds of their voices through the walls and I soon figured out that placing my hands over my ears did nothing to drown out the screaming.

My vision faded and I looked over to the balloons sitting on my desk and thought of Mr. Inconspicuous again. How I wish he knew things about me, and me about him. It was a desire like no other I’d ever experienced. As if I was lost in a dessert for days and not a single drop of water had yet touched my lips.
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Sorry it’s so short and for the weird talk i wrote. I’m reading this book, an old book, called troy and the author writes like that and I’ve read 50 pages of it today : ]