I began to panic, telling myself to breathe deeply as I was running up the fire-engine red carpeted staircase. It reminded me of spilled blood cascading down. I was in my suburban home, which was not a sanctuary. It was spring, but the house was chilly with air conditioning. The stinging thrashing of the buckle end of my father's belt lashed my back. With each strike my wounded spirit and sixteen year old body was going to be sore that night. This insane part of my father was his anger. A few steps away from the top of the stairs my mind tried to comfort me.