I do not remember my mother ever looking into my eyes, though my eyes were always treated by her with disgust.

“You have your father’s eyes,” she used to say to me. I never had any idea what was wrong with my father’s eyes or what was so hateful about them. For when she said these words she said them with hatred.

I was brought up with hatred. Hatred seemed to be the most overwhelming emotion in my family. It bred. My father was hated, though I never knew why, and I was hated too, ostensibly because I looked like him. I was dark. Dark skinned and dark haired. Fair was always best, according to my mother. Fair was to be loved and cherished, and thus, when my brother was born with fair hair and blue eyes he immediately became the golden boy.

It is impossible to describe the atmosphere…

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