I don't even remember what he said,

It was years ago. 

But did it even matter?

He'd said something insulting to my younger brother. 

For a six year old girl like me,

That was the worst offense.

That boy must have only been about seven or eight. 

But my brother was four,

So he couldn't really defend himself.

I was the sweetest, kindest, shyest child.

Rarely screamed, never hit anyone.

I was quiet and calm, with a pleasant demeanor.

So that's why it was really surprising.

When I punched the boy, hard,

And kicked him. 

One second, I was just staring at the older boy,

And the next second I was really angry.

I didn't even make the conscious decision to hit him,

It just happened.

I can't regret it though.

He deserved it.  

No one hurts my little brother,

Or they'll have to answer to me. 

I've always been a coward,

In the face of an angry man (thanks, Dad!)

Until a hateful night in December,

when an argument turned violent.

And I felt no fear, no anger, no sadness.

I felt nothing but bitter disgust with the realization.....

I will forever chase that which hurts,

I will always crave what's harmful,

I will only love men who can't love me back.

That night in December....

I laughed in the face of his anger.

My laughter fueled his temper.

I laughed harder, working to incite him.

Prodding with insults & a condescending tone.

He came at me with the Devil in his eyes,

With furious intent.

I watched him struggle to keep control.

And I dared him to do his worst.

Go ahead, motherfucker.

I've taken beatings -

Loved after bloody altercations.

My signature move is called "disappearing."

- it involves running away at first chance,

- staying hidden until hotheads cool.

Plan B combines soothing, coddling & distracting.

- diluting fury by kissing ass & sucking dick.

Disgusting.

Fights must always be avoided.

I cheapen my spirt, I whore my soul

To avoid them.

Except that night in December.

The next day, my life was very different.

Now I know how far I can push this man.

Now I know that I'm uglier than I feared.

And choosing "fight" over "flight" doesn't really work for me, either.

Now I know why I choose men who hurt me with their love...

It's exactly what I deserve.

      My soul fled my body, leaving its vessel out in the open as I stood onto the doorstep. My breaths condensed into fog, fog that seeped through my brain and paralyzed my thoughts. 

      In the midst of everything, a sibilant voice suggested,Why not just run away? and everything fell silent. 

      Another voice answered, brittle in its barely-contained excitement: Sure. 

      Some impulsive creature dwelling inside had risen from its depths to respond with a vicious snap, snap went my sense of self-preservation, preserved in a jar was only a indescribable longing to shatter glass and break free into the wilderness, wild was I as my body burst out onto the street, greeting the freezing night with only a threadbare jacket and torn jeans--

       The cold slammed into me sluggishly, sluggishly like my rationale, shoved into a pool of ice, that flailed about, shouting: "You'll get hypothermia!"

       Good, the creature answered as it wrapped itself around the helm of my body's ship, hurling the consequences out of the window. 

       My body walked for over a mile in the cold, singing songs to the stars, along the road with its metallic beasts and beckoning opportunities, opportunities to escape to the point of no return---

        ----but I did return. Eventually. Someone picked me up along the road and drove me home, delivering me into warmth, safety, and rationality. The creature submerged once more.

       From time to time, my body still shivers, remembering the cold. 

      And ever since then, I've discovered that I hated first-person.