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The first time I ever saw my own blood I was a passenger in a pale blue 1957 Chevy truck. My step-dad was driving, I sat in the middle, and my mom was next to the window. The seats were velvety, which was great because it was sweltering outside. It'd been a really hot summer.
"I bet I'm the tannest," I said to my mom. She snickered.
"No, I'm tanner," my step-dad said with a smile in his voice.
I held up my arm next to his as he took a sharp, left turn.
"Nope. I am. The only reason you look tanner is because you have hair on your arm!" At eight years old I felt so triumphant. I really did have a darker tan.
Then it slammed into my face. My mom screamed. My step-dad jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. We didn't have an accident. Nothing flew through the window.
It was his fist. Right in my face. My mom sobbed and screamed. I was stunned. Sweat slid down my cheek onto my scrawny knee. Only it wasn't sweat. It was red and thick. My own blood.
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