BELT.

I knew my mother loved me when she first hit me with the belt. I knew she hated me the second time she hit. Because the print on my skin felt red to the bone. The face on her face. She never knew the in-between; between love and the difference between hate. It was one love and three different variations of hate. I received all three variations of hate. My brother received three versions of hate. The belt was building up different variations of hate and only hate. That was when I knew I had to change. Not to appease my mother but to appease my Father so he could leave and I could kill my mother. For turning the one love she had for my last brother to hate because it felt more familiar to her home. She hated my brother with hate, me with rage, and my other brother with revenge. The belt taught me little boys against violence. She hit me and it felt like a kiss.

©YovaniBernard