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It has been my family's kryptonite for generations. I remember the smell permeating the room when my older brother went to my dad and grandpa for help removing pieces of shotgun ammo from his foot and was given a sharp knife and some gin to help soak it out. The smell was there when I sat on my father's lap and he read Bible stories to me in hopes that it would, in his words, “make me a little less wicked and hurtful”. It was there when I went to see my grandfather at his house because he'd been sick, hospitalized periodically for kidney and liver problems. The spiteful side of me wanted it to be there at his funeral years later. I wanted to douse his corpse in it as a reminder of who he really was to all the people gathered to glorify his shitty life. And the smell was there when I hid in my attic room, light bulbs unscrewed, listening to my father stumbling up the stairs, cursing me every wobbly step and swearing to end my life before I did more harm.