Show Me the Match!

I was a firebug when I was little. I basically liked to try to light candles, or just light matches then blow them out. One time, when we were living at the motel, my grandma came and spent the night. I was extremely close to her growing up (she died when I was nine). I spent many weekends at her house, and she even tried to get me to come live with her (my parents said no). She told me all kinds of family secrets, and basically spoiled me rotten. In turn, I'd cut material for her to sew things since she had arthritis, (and occassionally act like a brat).

While she was in our living room with me at our motel house, I lit a match, blew it out and shoved it under a bookcase. I never in a million years thought my beloved grandmother would tell on me.

The next thing I knew, my dad came at me with a belt in his hand demanding to know where the match was.

I refused to tell him.

He generously offered me two options: I can tell him what I did with the match, or I could get the belt.

Like an idiot, I chose the belt.

He took me to my room and hit me with the belt a few times. It hurt. But I didn't cry.

Instead I felt a deep satisfaction at the thought that I had won, because after he hit me, he still didn't know where the match was. I did.