Every night he would come home drunk, the disgusting thing I had been forced to call my father. He made me sick. He made me feel dirty and unworthy. But I guess he must have felt the same way after drinking himself silly. 

He'd come home, black, large, leather belt in hand. He wave it around, screaming for retribution. For what? Who knew. 

He would call me down the stairs and just like always, right before I did, I would lead Nadia into the closet that she knew so well and remind her to lock it from the inside, just like I had taught her.

Then, cautiously, I would make my way down the stairs. He'd normally just beat me senseless and though I wanted to run from the pain, I knew I couldn't. 

Whenever I would run he would eventually catch up and bring me down. Then he would force me to strip down into nothing but my boxers and he would bring his belt down upon my body.

Not only was it extremely painful, but is was absolutely degrading. I felt bare, like trash. 

And my father relished in it.

He laughed at my pain. He sullied me with his belt. And it wasn't with his belt it was with his words. 

My father was a smart man. He only beat me during the weekends, never during school. He had a reputation to keep after all and if the police found out about the beatings, his job as a doctor would be revoked immediately. 

So during the weekdays he would use his words like a whip on my back. I was a sick, disgusting child and I only had one reason for not losing it completely. 

That was Nadia. She was the result of a broken condom on a dark and sweaty summer night. When the woman walked up to the door with a baby in her hand, my father was forced to take her, lest he wanted the girl to press charges.

He "raised" until she was about three. Then he left her to me. And she became my reason for living. I never wanted anything to touch her pure thoughts and so I made it my self appointed job to protect her from the demon that lived in this house.

Though my father never paid her any mind-- probably because he thought of her as a bastard child not worth his time-- I just couldn't take any chances. I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to her. She was so fragile and scared of this world. And I knew, that even though she couldn't see the danger, she heard and felt it. It was impossible not to. 

I thought I could bear it all. I thought this would just be our life. But as the years went on, the beatings continued to gradually grow worse and worse. Until finally, one night,