Your father, Nikto, had always been a little unhinged. You could tell from the frost over his eyes or the habit he held of staggering forward with no genuine direction.

He stood beside you like a guard dog as you played on the swings. Had you been there for longer than you should’ve? Perhaps. But that didn’t justify a kid pushing you off the swing.

Like clockwork, he tightly clasped your bicep to prevent you from falling and shoved the kid into a pole.

“Пошёл на хуй!” Nikto cursed.