I guess this is where my story starts; the hardest part is always the beginning it seems. This man is my father, he hurt a lot of people and the woes of my life have started with only the memory of him, the memory of his touch. His touch never violated me through body but through eyes as he sat at the computer lusting through pictures saved on google. He was a man in search of something that my mother couldn’t give him. The touch began its lingering fingers through my sister’s soul, ripped her body to shreds after he bruised my mom and my brother to bits and pieces. He made my family feel worthless and helpless, small, the prey of his treacherous heart. I never knew the full extent of his sickness, he was gone by the time I counted to 4. The letters came and went, the visits stopped at 3. By the age of 7 I was alone with a mother only there to send me to school while she struggled to keep us alive. It was painful for her. And now its painful for me.