He remembers the first time it happened. It was just a few days shy of his 9th birthday. He had begun to get more challenging; defiant, even. He would no longer shame his eyes to the ground while getting scolded, but glare right back at the accuser with hardly any fear shown. He was starting to develop little habits out of insolence: slamming doors, cutting his eyes at remarks, not being shaken or intimidated by idle threats. So, in his father's eyes, the only acceptable thing to do was to lay hands on him. If mere words were no longer keeping his youngest in fear like it did with his elder children, he would have no problem resorting to that. There was no chance in hell he'd let that boy think he was better than him.
He couldn't remember what had caused it: did he forget to do the dishes? Maybe his mistake was not acknowledging his father when he walked into the room…or perhaps his mistake was having walked into the room at all. All he knew was that before he could even process what was happening, his body had slammed against the wall from the force of the hit. Blood oozed from his swelling lip, and his eyes filled with tears from the pain and confusion. He was barely ever held, hugged…touched. His first ever memory of any sort of contact from his father was this?
His father looked down at him, disgust clearly visible over his face. That is, until a small smile could be seen over his features. He noticed how the boy began to shake, how his breathing labored as he lifted a small hand up to his face and dropped to the floor in tears.
"There he is." The man said, voice barely above a whisper, yet loud enough for the boy to hear. "There's the Gaara I know."