Twelve

I've just come from cleaning the church. Tithing my time. Lots of things have been going through my mind. I call my service and check my messages; there's only one. "Dane, before going to Gordon's office come here. There are some things that we need to talk about." I guess I'm getting fired again. Oh well, can't cut work and expect to stay on.
I'm tired. Why did I have such a hard time with that office? I know why. I just don't want to have to think about it. Men are in that office. Why is that such a big deal? I'll never trust one for as long as I live. I feel threatened by their presence. Physically threatened. They only men I've had in my life have all beat the crap out of me or mentally torn me apart. Even the male shrinks I've gone to have screwed me over in the same way.
I'm twelve years old and I'm cleaning in my mothers kitchen. I remember my hands looking like finger raisins from the dish water. The kitchen light is a wagon wheel in the center of the ceiling. It is painted yellow, white and light green. There is a medium sized, round table in the center of the floor.
My father walks in the room. He has on a blue, checked, flannel shirt with blue jeans that are cuffed at the bottom. He has on his black, combat boots that he wore in the Army. He wears them as work boots now. A thick, brown, leather belt is at his waist with a big ECE buckle. I know it well. I wore the imprint of it on my stomach and legs for two weeks while in high school.
Ever wore a turtle neck in the summer...hot as haities.
I sense, more than know, that he's there before he says a word. Something animal comes up inside me and I want to scream, but there is this heavy weight crushing on my chest. No air...I can't breath...I panic.