I could not do anything, I was helpless but aware that it was a very bad thing.
He was wrong.
He was wrong and what he did.
Maybe he didn't realize that we were people and not objects, but my opinion has always been that he was mentally ill.
Only the sick get pissed off for no reason and then cry like infants apologizing and looking for a normal approach.
We lived in a shit house.
I was only six years old but now that I'm twenty I still remember everything as it was yesterday.
As if the Texas wind wasn't enough to blow the bad images out of my mind.
I was holding a teddy bear in the arms of those with one eye when my father shot my mother Cosette in the middle of the night.
She was the middle of the night and I peed on myself and cried holding back my sobs out of fear. He didn't have to know. He shouldn't have found his he only daughter awake and aware of what had happened.
Cosette Liguori, of Italian descent, and Andrew Foster, my father, no longer belonged to each other.
It hurt to know that no one knew anything about the daily domestic violence my mother was subjected to.
It's absurd how that damned house on Severina Street, at the intersection with Eikon Street near the Verono River, was so pathetic and almost maliciously smiling and explosive.
She knew and the walls took pleasure, advantage.
Since my mother died for me it was the house of bones, and only later would it also become of ashes ...