6 is a perfect number.
6 was the age I was when I stopped receiving daily beatings from my father. 6 was the age I became me.
Early years are often forgotten, trampled to dust by the stampede of Time. They become fragments that must be plucked from the air, disconnected yet still, somehow meaningful.
My early years were spared such a crushing charge. They stayed with me. The pain. The bruising. The sight of my twisted father's body.
The pleasure that gave.
