Fear of God/Dad

Written sometime after 1996 in a very small book (transcribed here in 2020):

I remember once when I was very young I was throwing rocks – not just rocks but big fist-sized (mind you my fist be be half the size it is now) stones and maybe jokingly, but I hit a kid – a kid I knew from my neighborhood and he was really hurt, bent over crying hurt. And I felt huge pangs of guilt but even more so fear. Fear for myself and the repercussions of my actions. If my dad beat me up for not washing the dishes, for saying “what” too many times – what could I expect for braining someone? I ran home and I don’t know that I’ve ever believed in God more that day, or at least wanted to believe in some all poerful force that would save me from pain if only I would beg it from Him and make empty promises. But even then I knew it wasn’t enough and so – and I have no idea if this was courage or cowardice – I went to the kids parents and at first they were livid with me but they could see the regret or at the very least fear in my eyes and I begged and pleaded with them not to tell my parents through fountains of heaving sobs – quite real I assure you.

Sometimes you cry so much your glands hurt – your ducts get raw and bitter. This hasn’t happened for a while but I remember the feeling.