Georgia

          Papa’s name was Peter. He was a strong and handsome man. His features were chiseled into his face so as to give him a very angular appearance. Black eyes shown from under his prominent brow and his high cheekbones hinted rose. Papa’s voice was deep, but his speech was broken by a Greek accent. He wore a mustache up until Hitler came to power, but now it was shaved because he thought Hitler was a sick man and wanted no similarity to him.
          My body quaked under his stare, but I found that my feet wouldn’t move. He sauntered over to us and just stared for a minute. He towered over me, or so it felt, and Helen gripped my dress. Then the hand came up, as in slow motion I saw it coming and immediately braced myself. I hit the floor with a thud so hard, it felt like the ground shook. I almost took Helen down when I fell, but she got out of the way. The side of my face was stinging now and I couldn’t remember what had just happened. When the disorientation passed, I struggled across to the wall and stood up.
          “I’m sorry Papa. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-” I started to crying but sliding away with my back against the wall as he came closer. He kicked a small stool out of his way and it crashed into the door.
          “You will obey.” I fell onto my knees and buried my head into my arms with tears streaming down my face. Then I felt his boot in my side and pain shoot through me, crippling me and I fell over.
          It continued like this for an hour or so, and finally Papa relented. I lifted my head and looked at him, bloody faced and broken, and he spat at me.
          “You learn now.” Were his final words before he stepped out the door. I don’t know how long I lay there not moving, not crying, just barely thinking. Mainly I was bruised. He could have done worse, he had before. Helen somehow managed to haul me into bed. I could hear her breathing across the room; she was slept on the floor so she wouldn’t nudge me while she dreamt. I never closed my eyes that night. I don’t remember what I thought about, but I did not go to sleep.
          In the early hours of the morning I was knocked out of my unblinking, unmoving state when I heard the front door close and my father’s faltering footsteps. My body cringed involuntarily and sudden I could feel how sore I was. My ribs ached and my head stung and there was a fuzzy feeling in my right arm, which Papa had twisted behind my back as he punched me.
          Our bedroom door creaked open and I could see his silhouette blocking the soft glow of the kitchen light. Papa came and sat down on the bed next to me and started to pet my head. I could smell the sour stench on him and I whimpered unintentionally.
          “Your Papa is sorry, Georgie. I did not mean to hit you so hard. You the only one who loves me now, and I hurt you.” His slurred speech was only broken by occasional sobs, “You love your Papa? Don’t run from Papa… Please, Georgie-” Moving his hand slowly down my trembling shoulder, he leaned down and kissed my lips; a tear rolled down from the eye closest to the bed and I knew I would cry again.