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Spanish colonial situated in a cul de sac. There were lots of children in the neighborhood and I ruled them all. Most of the neighborhood children were boys. If they looked at me weird or for too long, I punched them in their balls. If they didn’t follow my rules, I punched them in the balls. If they wanted to play something that I didn’t, I punched them in the balls. I gave them warning. They knew what I would do.
                  “If you touch my bike one more time, I’m going to sock you hard,” I would say. There were always fools who defied me. They would run up quick, pull my hair and then skip backwards laughing. I was fast though. I chased them and whacked them. Hard. I didn’t hit like a girl. I hit them as if I was defending my life.
                  My Mom got complaints.
                  “You need to control your kid,” said one mother from the neighborhood.
                  Mom sighed. “What did she do?”
                  “She punched my son in his privates. If you don’t control her, I’m calling the police and Child Protective Service. Your daughter needs help. What she does isn’t normal.”
                  “I’ll take care of it.”
                  Mom closed the door. “You need to stop this, Dresden. If your Father finds out…”
                  I suddenly got scared. “Don’t tell him, mom. Just don’t.”
                  Mom pushed up the sleeves of her shirt. Her arms were riddled with bruises. Makeup was covering the marks on her eyes and cheeks.
                  “I would never do that to you, Dresden. I don’t want this to happen to you.” Mom pointed to her bruises.
                  Dad was an animator at Disney. He worked long hours and got paid well. When he was home, he was the king. He was in control and his family were his objects. He wanted me and Mom to be dressed immaculately. He wanted us quiet and waiting for him. He wanted a hot dinner ready when he got home from work. If anything in the house was out of place, he raged like a monster. One time I left crayons on the table.
                  “What is this? Why are there crayons on the table?” Dad’s voice was low and calm, but Mom and I knew what was coming. I started crying.
                  “Hush, Dresden.” Mom tried to console me, but she was as scared as I.
                  “Come here, Joanna.” Mom pushed me away. She was trying to protect me.
                  “Yes, darling.” Mom was trying to placate him. “I’ll pick up the crayons.”
                  “You will pick up the crayons. You will.” Dad pulled off his belt and rocked back on his feet. He grabbed Mom by her arm and lashed her. He had no mercy. Mom fell to the ground crying as Dad whacked her several times. He was out of breath and heaving with anger. He saw me, standing in the center of the living, pale as a wintery cloud.
                  “You’re next,” said Dad. I ran. I was quick. Dad chased me up the stairs and punched out my door. I cowered in the corner of the room. There was no escape from him. The belt seared my skin. I wanted the pain to end. I wanted Dad to disappear. I wanted him to die.
                  Mom committed suicide when I was thirteen. She hung herself from the ceiling fan in the dining room. Dad had brought me home from soccer practice. I was sullen. My team had lost the game and Dad had berated me for not winning.
                  “You’re mediocre at best. You can’t do anything right. You don’t play like a champion.”
                  When Dad pulled into our driveway, I hopped out before he stopped the car. I charged into our home and called out for Mom. I heard Dad’s footsteps behind me. I knew he was going to hit me. He didn’t like it when I demonstrated my