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And I was gone. All my thoughts, all my dreams, all my ego and consciousness — they were swallowed by a darkness so deep and so empty and so powerful that I screamed: “Get Off My Mother!”
Something made me hurdle toward him. I used all my weight. I struck him with my body. Somehow, it worked. He staggered. My mother was running.
But it made the situation so much worse. I knew right after I hit him that I’d really fucked up. I attacked him in his own fucking house; I attacked him in his home?
There’s a void after that memory — a complete blankness that may involve my head being slammed on a wall. That image comes to me a lot. I don’t know why. It’s a recurring memory.
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Metanarrative