Cross

The small cross around my neck was stained with the blood of the only father I had known. I was no more than twelve years old when my father first visited my bed at night. The absence of my mother had turned him to a person unknown to me.

Misfortune had become my best friend and father brought many of his friends to keep me company at night. I was only thirteen.

The scars on my body, were multiplying like a deadly virus. Everyone knew it, but none helped. I was only fourteen.

Now he is dead, and I am sixteen.