After his father's death, my father was sent to work for a family that lived in a large house, something he had never seen. Their son was crazy. He had gone mad from his sister's death, her murder, and they kept him locked up in the attic. It was my father's job to wash him and feed him. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay The crazy boy drooled over his food and my father was forced to eat the spit-covered leftovers. It was disgusting, but if my father refused, that crazy boy would threaten him with a baseball bat. He feared his parents and did not want to upset them by not eating all his food. One day the crazy boy fell ill and vomited everything he had eaten. He had been poisoned. From his own parents. My father didn't know what to do. He saw the crazy boy vomit on himself and die right in front of him. The parents of the crazy boy went up the stairs and took their son, without asking any questions. The incident was kept under wraps and my father was asked to leave. So he went to visit his sister who was a stay-at-home mother, but by the time he got there, it was too late. Her husband told my father that she became very ill and died a few weeks ago. My father neither understood nor believed her husband, but there was nothing he thought he could do. After losing his only sister, my father became a criminal. He gambled. He stole. He killed. He raped. And on his back he has a tattoo of a lion. He soon realized that he was following in my grandfather's footsteps. He knew that if he continued on the same path he would die. So, he moved to a new country to make something of himself. There he found work on a pig farm. It wasn't great, but it was honest work. He met a young woman and they eventually married and had a child. When war broke out in the summer, he was forced to join the army and fight for a country that wasn't his. He killed so many people in that war. When the war finally ended, he returned home to find that his son had been killed in a bombing and his wife had gone mad. It put her out of her own misery. A mix of pills and alcohol that he had drunk over the summer. When he realized what he had done, he decided it was time to leave. He fled the mysterious country. Whenever my father talked about this period of his life, he always said the same thing: “We live in hell. Hell on Earth." Eventually, he returned to his hometown. There he met my mother and they got married. They had two children. My older brother and I. When I was a child, I remember how my father sat at the table in the cook, drinking to oblivion. He had a very hard life. My father hated me. Every time he drank he would beat me until he was black and blue day my mother told me to go to the slaughterhouse and bring lunch to my father. Now it was my turn to feed him. When I got there, I found him killing pigs in the courtyard, under his burning son. He was naked from the waist up and he beat the pigs with a baseball bat. It was terrible. The pigs squealed as they were killed. His eyes glowed red as he danced back and forth on his sweaty back. His face and torso were covered in blood. Some his, some not. One dark winter night, while snow was falling outside, my father had not returned from his usual walk which consisted of a backpack full of beer and Jack. My mother was worried, as usual. Me.”