I stared at the scratched blue paint on the door, as I dreaded to open it. Noah was standing behind me quietly, as always. I backed up and looked at our house, from the outside it looked quaint however, it was very misleading. Even though it was already the month of May, I shivered as I remembered how my father destroyed not only our house but our lives. It was amazingly silent as I stood outside, no one yelling...yet. Maybe he wasn’t home. No, I couldn’t have gotten that lucky tonight. He was home, probably sitting downstairs in his smoke and scent of alcohol. Yes, he was down there and I was scared to wake up the beast that was ready to eat his prey the moment I unlocked that door. Every day as I walked in, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I would see the same expression, the same hurt on my face. Many said I looked like my mom, with my dark brown eyes and long blond hair. What they saw might have been elegant but, what I saw everyday were eyes full of pain and fear, long scraggly hair and a solemn face. As I unloaded my backpack, my mother, still in her nightgown walked down the stairs. My overtired mother began to make supper as Noah and I began our homework. She was tired and thin, I noticed working long hours at the factory had definitely taken its toll on her. Once supper was on the table, everyone sat down and it all began. My father as usual became disgusted with the food. He tried to be sincere as he asked me how my day went. I simply answered, “Fine”. He moved on to my brother and his cheeks turned red. My brother at the age of 4 had never said a word in his entire life. My father got frustrated, went up behind Noah and strangled his neck yelling, “Are you stupid boy? I asked you a question now speak!” Then he moved on to my mom, yelling and telling her she was an awful mother. I took Noah up to my bedroom and read him a storybook. I tried to read over the loud noises my father was making, throwing plates and cups. Suddenly, I heard a loud shriek, a gunshot and my mother’s thin body falling to the ground. His hard knees fell to the floor and he began to cry. I never thought he was capable of crying. The neighbours must have heard the shot that went through my mother’s already broken heart because it didn’t take long for the police cars to come speeding down the road. This was the end of one story but only the very beginning of another. I remember clearly, it was May 25th 2005 when my mother died and it was only the next day did I find myself sitting in a cold room, shivering as I remembered this night.