My uncle hit me for the first time last week. It was a really exciting moment for me and my family.
He took me out into the living room and called in the family to stand around us in a circle. The lights were dim and it smelled like an extinguished fireplace.
He stood above me with a straight face and asked me, “Do you remember when you were little and I used to come into your room at night and kiss you goodnight with your dad in the other room watching mens sports?” to which I replied “Yes.”
The entire family began snapping their fingers. My uncle hushed them and said sternly, “I am about to hit your son,” to which my father, his brother chimed in, “That’s my son and only you can hit him now.”
I began getting excited at the prospect of my uncle hitting me. I’ve never been hit by a family member before - only the witches from my closet.
My uncle got down on both knees and pinched me by the cheeks. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since you were born,” he said quietly. I turned over and saw my mom in the corner of the room doing an Irish step dance routine she learned.
Smack! My uncle punches me across the face. My family roars with cheers and laughter. Smack! He punches again, this time a tooth comes flying out into grandma’s lap. Smack! He hits me with an uppercut, sending blood spewing out of my mouth onto the mantle of the fireplace.
My uncle grabbed me by my neck and lifted me up. “I love you like a son, I want to raise you as my own. You’re my child now,” he said loudly for everyone to hear. “That’s your son now,” my dad said happily. I was thrilled at the prospect of a new father.
My uncle’s basement became my new home, he set me up with a nice area behind some boxes filled with model trains and adult magazines. Life from here on out would involve lots of violence and alcohol.