Screaming. That 's one of my earliest memories. So excruciatingly loud and sharp, that my ears tingled in pain. I watched helplessly as she flung herself against the front door. Her palms banging against the harsh, unforgiving wood over and over again; until her hands were covered in blood. I remember watching my mother sit up against the door for days. Dark bags quickly forming under her eyes from sleepless nights. Waiting for him to walk through that front door once again. Waiting for him to gently pick her up from the floor, to nestle her into his chest and nvelope his arms around her. To dry her tears and whisper into her ear that everything was going to be okay over and over again, and comfort her with words that he was