Memory 2 week 4

I survived childhood with an imaginary friend named Grophy, who extended as my Id.
I remember a playroom, where some light split the carpet into two colors, and my sister asked to play Barbies and I just wanted to kick ant hills on the curb outside.
She, still young enough to be manipulated, wouldn't understand when I hit her for interfering in my death counts, knocking her onto the curb grass in our front lawn. She wouldn't cry, merely stare wide-eyed and confused, until I bent down and hugged her, almost clinging to her sweatshirt. I was 8 and scared of my father, soft spoken but always threatening the belt or a hairbrush.
Apologies exploded, intentional word vomit blaming not myself, anyone but myself.
"Did Grophy hurt you?"
She nods, my heart aches with knowing I'm free again.