By this point, I had pretty much learned my lesson about talking to the police. All it ever resulted in was a weekend away, in sometimes less than stellar accommodations, after which I was returned home. Home, to more people visiting and asking questions, many of which resulted in subtle- and not so subtle- consequences once everyone was gone.
I don’t even recall this precipitating incident. There was always something. I would do something wrong; not finish a chore correctly, get caught lying about eating some food, or whether my laundry was put away. Most of the time when this happened, I (or we, if there were accomplices) would get yelled at, maybe given a few extra chores. Occasionally; however, someone would go off script. I would start yelling about life being unfair, my mom would dump every drawer in my room out, or my dad might take off his belt. By the time it was over, my mother would have called the police or a social worker to report I had attacked her. Someone would come and take me somewhere, and then it would start over again.