Eggshells

 Sorry, I took a break for a while.  Anyway, I'm frightened by the sight of blood.  Some people grow out of it, some don't.  I even tried being an EMT many years ago, hoping it'd help me get over it.  Throughout my formative years mother, God rest her soul, would leave  sanitary napkins- sometimes folded, sometimes not- on the edge of the bath tub during the night.  I'd come downstairs either first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night to pee and would find what I thought at the time were bandages, thinking that someone had gotten injured while I was asleep.  As with everything else growing up I never discussed this, never asked about it.  Father was a psycho, mother was meek and frightened and my siblings and I never talked much about anything.  Everything was a secret, everything was taboo, no one dared talk about anything or ask questions.  Father, when he was around, exploded at the slightest provocation and was always over eager to find the nearest prop to beat us with. Mother even got in on the beating game, but felt guilty afterwards.  One night when I was probably about 8 or so we'd heard mother and father yelling and banging things around, and when I crept downstairs under the guise of having to use the bathroom I saw broken glass on the kitchen floor, mother staring into the bathroom mirror holding a bloody towel around one of her hands, crying and father sitting at the kitchen table with a cold, vacant sneer on his face. As with every other similar incident I didn't dare question anything.  I simply slunk out of the kitchen and went back upstairs.  I hadn't had to pee, but I think I remember waking up in soaked sheets that next morning.