I entered the kitchen.
In the night.
Barefoot.
When I was nine.
My father.
On the floor.
There was blood.
Broken glass.
Everywhere.

I saw him seeing me.
And then saw myself returning to my room.
Closing the door.
Behind me.
Hiding under the blanket.
From my thoughts.
Wishing him to be gone.
Forever.

But he did not die.
Not that night.
When he stumbled and fell.
After getting drunk.
As so often.

Bright red on the white kitchen floor. Broken glass. Everywhere.

And I would keep on saying little children's prayers.
In those nights of childhood.
When I was nine.
When I was ten.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
In my room. Him being drunk.
Asking God, my hands covering my face, to make my father gone.
Amen.