eyes staring at my legs

I was pigeon toed when I was a little boy. Four years old. My mother got leg braces for me to wear at night. To straighten me out. When I cried my father would take them off. He hated crying. Then my parents would fight. Screaming. Breaking. I hid under my bed. I wanted them to stop. I would have gladly died if it would have made them love each other. I can remember as a little boy watching movies, TV, sit-coms and only caring about the couples that were in conflict. I wanted them to love each other. To this day when ashamed I feel angry eyes staring at my legs. And in my dreams I am always trying to hide. Behind trees in the rain. Behind furniture. Even behind the Queen of Hearts' white rose bushes while they are being painted. But I'm never invisible. My legs always stick out no matter what I do and they find me.

it didn't work

My father used to sneak me out of bed late at night. We would sit together in his big chair and watch horror movies. I was 5 years old. Terrified. Didn't want to watch. He made me watch. Made me pretend to not be afraid. Sitting with him had to be enough to make me brave. It wasn't that he wanted to be with me; share a favorite interest. He was making me tough. Driving the fear out of me with his will. It didn't work.