Snippet #1334406

When I got home I entered the house and all hell broke loose. When my grandmother was finished slapping me and yelling, my mother started up. She told me my father would "whip my ass" when he got home. This was a bad sign. She made me make her and my grandmother dinner so I began. Bread, tea, lettuce, tomato, ect. Sandwiches and tea. I had sliced the tomato, cleaned the lettuce, and was working on the bread. It was fresh and I was almost finished when I dropped the knife. It was falling and I knew that my grandmother would hear and scold me. Then she would tell me I was not fit to create such a simple dinner and my father would be even angrier. (He never really abused me. He just slapped me occasionally. It was still uncomfortable and shitty.) I grabbed the knife in mid-air, slicing into my hand. Deep. I did not yelp, I did not shed a tear. It felt good. I mean it helped with the emotional pain, I think. I put a rag around it and finished dinner. They were pleased. I went upstairs and found a razor. I sat at the foot of my bed thinking. Should I? Maybe that is not what helped. But I did anyway. I cut and then I cleaned them up. I fell asleep when my father was done yelling, and after I cut again removing the fight from my list of problems. It felt so good. No. It... it just... it helped. Why? This is so odd.