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Chapter 2 — The Black Sheep
There are no baby pictures of me. Not one.
A couple blurry toddler shots exist somewhere, but the proof of my first days is missing, like I was a ghost child who slipped in unnoticed. My story didn’t start with balloons or family smiles.
It started with absence.
I remember learning early that no one was going to take care of me. I was barely more than a toddler when I started changing my own diapers. I’d crawl into the laundry room, pull myself up the hamper like it was a mountain, and stretch small hands over the lip of the washer and dryer just to reach one.
Imagine that… bare feet on cold tile, a diaper in my mouth to free up both hands, a boy teaching himself how to survive.
By the time most kids were safe in someone’s arms, I was already learning the world wasn’t safe at all.
One of my earliest memories is of my dad in his shop. The buzz of the saw, the smell of wood and oil, and then a scream. I saw his finger fly and the blood pour.
Trauma isn’t supposed to come that young, but mine came covered in sawdust.
And it didn’t stop there.
The babysitter’s house was worse than any horror movie. She’d make mayonnaise sandwiches and set them in front of me like a test. I hated the smell, the slimy texture, the way my stomach turned at the sight of it.
I told her no. Politely at first, then firmly.
Her eyes hardened. The kind of stare that made you wish you’d swallowed your pride with the sandwich. She grabbed me by the arm and shoved me into a closet.
Darkness slammed shut around me.
The air was thick with mothballs and damp wood. My cheek pressed against a hanging coat that scratched my skin. I could hear her in the kitchen, humming while she washed dishes, as if I didn’t exist.
At first I cried, then I whispered to myself—half words, half sounds—just to fight the loneliness. My heartbeat echoed so loudly in my ears that it felt like the whole world could hear it.
When the door finally opened, I wasn’t the same kid who had refused lunch.
I had learned her lesson:
Sometimes adults were monsters, too.
But the real monster was at home.
My older brother made cruelty into a game. He once kicked me in the privates so hard I ended up in the hospital, black and blue and swollen. Another time he pressed a cigarette into my arm, leaving a scar I still carry today.
He made me drink gutter water for a piece of gum, humiliated me in front of friends, and forced dog food into my mouth like it was entertainment.
His toys weren’t toys at all—throwing knives, Chinese stars, staple guns. He’d shoot or throw them in my direction, laughing as I ducked and scrambled, a little boy turned into target practice.
That’s what home was.
And yet, in the middle of the chaos, I found love.
My dog, JR.
He was my companion, my escape.
Until parvo took him.
I can still see the foam around his mouth, hear the sound of his breathing as it slowed. I remember crying so hard I thought I’d break in half.
Losing him was the first time I understood that love could be ripped away—sudden and cruel.
By the end of elementary school, everything was coming apart. I watched my parents argue until my mom finally kicked my dad out. I was on the couch, pretending to be asleep, but I heard it all—the shouting, the slam of the door, the silence after.
I felt sorry for him.
I tried to save him.
I gave him advice on shaving, dressing nice, buying flowers for Mom. I even wrote him a song and begged him to play it for her. He kept that song in his wallet, proof that at least someone still believed in him.
But it didn’t matter.
Their marriage was gone, and deep down, I knew I couldn’t hold it together for them.
By the time I turned ten, I had scars inside and out.
Scars from fists.
Scars from fire.
Scars from silence.
But every wound was weight on the barbell of life, and I was lifting it without knowing.
I wasn’t a child anymore.
I was a survivor.
The black sheep of my family—the misfit no one knew what to do with.
But black sheep grow teeth.
And inside me, the Lion was waiting.
Quiet for now…
but destined to roar.
—End of Chapter 2—