Greorge couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. He just wouldn’t get up. Layin’ there till way in the afternoon. I was out of food and knew he didn’t want me drivin’ his car but because he was still sleepin’, I thought I could sneak off and go get groceries. It would only take a minute. I got back—no problem, and started cookin’. He finally crawled out and started grumblin’ around the house. He went outside and then came chargin’ back in. I was in the front room by the closet. “My car’s been moved . . . my car’s been moved.” I didn’t say a word. “Did you drive my car?” he screamed. “I told you not to drive my car.” I backed away. He pushed me up against the door and grabbed me by the hair with both his hands. He started pounding my head against the closet. Bang . . . bang . . . bang. The nail hooks sticking out of the door were digging into my scalp. Bang . . . bang . . . bang. When he saw blood on his hands, he stopped. He went outside. I ran to the kitchen and put my head under the faucet. I was sittin’ at the table tryin’ to dry my hair with a towel when he walked in, stared at me and growled . . . “I’m hungry.”