A Screwdriver To the Ribcage

Toxic Ideals and a Lack of Fatherly Advice

Photo by Mitchel Lensink on Unsplash

There I was, an eleven-year-old stuck between a block of abandoned offices and a defunct parking lot with a screwdriver pressed against my ribcage. He demanded what was mine with eyes that spoke a language of their own. I was told to either hand over one of my cigarettes — our currency at the time — or he would push the sharp object into my…