There are crayons scattered all over the floor and sheets of white and painted paper. Has been dark for some time, but I'm not in bed. My baby hands hold a purple crayon and scratches the face of a man painted entirely in black. Around me there are countless papers with black circles on them and purple lines. There are other colors, but none of them are used, only black and purple. The door to my room opens with a crash so strong that daub falls from the frame. My little body jumps into place, and then the screams start.

I wake up and the shouts continue. I feel disoriented and as if my mouth is filled cotton. My dream is no worse than reality. I hear the breaking of something and my mother's scream. My eyes are already open and i am running down the stairs. In front of my eyes is my father's huge body and how he swings.

I pick up a pen from my diary. The days in which these things really happened have long been gone, but that dream never changes. I do not remember much of my childhood, but I clearly remember the moment from my room and all the crayons being crushed and stepped on and it's always the way my dreams of him start, no matter what they turn into.

I close the diary and start dressing, it's time to find the only person who can fix my mood.