We were in our apartment in the Bronx. My dad was drinking. Drinking hard, like he always did. He was screaming at my mother. She was screaming at him... I was cowering in the closet. I was terrified. I could feel the door vibrate as he yelled and yelled.Then I heard a crash, I felt the scream, I heard the thud of my mother falling to the floor, an eventually fatal concussion from the whisky bottle my father hit her with. He went out the front door, slamming it. I got out of the closet and looked. Lying back on the cool grass I ignored the possibility of the green stain that could discolour my crisp white blouse, so carefully ironed just that morning by my mother.Unbuttoning the front below the danger level, exposing my white bra and the small titties contained within their small cups, more like puffy nipples than breasts, undeveloped but highly desirable, and prized by men willing to suck them deep into their mouths.The thought made me more uncomfortable as I lay there, pulling my knees. More

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