and give me back my broken parts.

the first real memory i have, by normal standards, is not a "good" one. although, if asked honestly. i would have to say, i don't view it as being good or bad. being happy or sad. it is merely a memory.
Around the age of 2, I was living in Big Bear, Ca. with my Mom and my older brother who was about 4. We were living with a man named Bob. If I passed Bob on the street today, I wouldn't know it. I do not remember his face, I do not remember how tall he was, I do not remember if he cared about my well-being, or fed me my cereal in the morning. What i do remember is that every night we lived in that house, my brother would come and pull me out of the crib to come and sleep in bed with him. My first memory happens on a night like that, Scott had pulled me out of my crib and we, for some reason (probably scotts idea) crawled from his room and snuck into the living room and hid under the dining room table. The scene that lay before us, was my mother, quite possibly drunk or high, and Bob. They were fighting, pretty fiercely, and Scott and I remained under that table and watched this man hit our mother, over and over and over again. Looking back now, I do realize that this is not a merry, happy-go-lucky memory. Not one for the books. But to this day, I do not have a feeling of fear or sadness when I think of that night. I would have thought it all to be a dream, if Scott's first vivid memory was not the same one.