To whom this may concern:
I’m sorry for what you’ve been through to get here today.
The memories lying on your hippocampus, back to the moment as a little boy when you decided to stand up to your father for hitting your mother. Not this time, you contemplated with air filling your chest. You approach your father, but this time he looks bigger in size, ten feet high, towering over your little body. Between a recoil and the chakra in your throat, you didn’t pause in fear like you normally would. But in a split second, the world comes to an ease, and your conciseness discovers all of your siblings allowing their father to abuse their mother once again. What cowards they must be to remain silent once again, you surmise, how else is this cycle going to end unless we interrupt it? But you were just a child, and so were they. On a blue night, unusual like any other, belting from your throat was a force you forever used as your weapon. A tone so stern, a volume so powerful, catching your father’s attention was your winning trophy. You located a power to use anytime you want to extract fear from a soul. Thirty-minutes pass nine, you found yourself outside of your home where your father left you with just a bag of your clothes. On your own, from the age of twelve, you spoke up like a man and your father threatened you to perform your best portrayal of what a man should be when you didn’t know how.
I wish you believe me when I tell you that you didn't deserved that.
sincerely,
your son