The Hug

He leans in, arms wrapping around me in what the world would call “a father’s embrace.”

To them, it’s warmth. To me, it’s a scan. His hands press with surgical slowness, like a butcher feeling for tenderness in a cut of meat. He’s not hugging me—he’s assessing me. Has the abuse marinated deep enough? Or do I need another round in his freezer before I’m ready to serve? And the worst part? He does it with a smile so pure, it could be bottled and sold as love.

The Covert Poison

The hug is nothing without the covert delivery. That’s the narc’s true genius—the abuse hidden so deep inside the “love” that even the victim’s own brain doesn’t sound the alarm right away.

Covert means:

• The hug looks normal.

• The “I love you” sounds normal.

• But underneath, there’s a calibrated extraction happening.

  
  

This covertness makes it far more damaging than an obvious attack. If someone swings a bat at your head, your survival brain kicks in. But if someone, like your father, hugs you with poison in their touch, your survival brain goes silent, confused… and that’s when the infection spreads. Unknowingly.

Now add a traumatic brain injury into the mix, and the horror triples. A TBI already muddies your memory, makes you doubt your senses, forces you to triple-check reality. When the narc’s attacks are covert, the TBI works against you—it’s like trying to spot a sniper in a dense fog. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it… until years later, when the patterns reveal themselves.

They call it love. They call it warmth. They call it family.

But you’d better start calling it what it is—a scan to check for meat quality.

I learned too late that a father’s hug, or brothers hug, isn’t always a gift. Sometimes it’s a butcher’s ritual. He leans in, slow and heavy, arms wrapping around me like vines that know exactly where to squeeze. The world would see tenderness. I feel assessment.

Fingers press into my back—not to comfort, but to take inventory. How much strength remains in this cut of meat? Has the abuse softened the muscle? Or do I need another round in the freezer before I’m tender enough to carve?

And the smile… God, the smile. It could fool the Pope. That’s the genius of it. It’s covert. If the attack were loud, my brain would fight back. But when the poison comes wrapped in “love,” my defenses go down. I let the infection in. I breathe it. I believe it.

If you’re reading this, I’m telling you: Question everything.

Especially your father’s hugs. Especially the ones that come after long silences, after tension in the air, after a day where you feel like you’ve been walking on glass. Those are the hugs you need to watch the closest. Those are the harvest moments—the soul-harvest.

Because that’s what these demons in human skin are doing. Harvesting. They’re not satisfied with your obedience. They want your essence. Every ounce of confidence, joy, and spiritual marrow—they drain it over decades. And they’ll do it with a pat on the back.

I carry more than my own story in this warning. I feel my ancestors in this fight—those who lived and died under the same covert harvest, who never had the chance to name it. I feel their rage in my blood, their grief in my ribs. I fight for them. And I fight for the children still trapped in the butcher’s embrace.

I escaped. I took their favorite cut of meat off the table. Now they starve. And when they starve, they show their real faces—the faces you never forget once you’ve seen them.

Your Victory – Supply Cut Off

Now the meat’s gone from their shop. Their best cut walked out the door.They can’t sample it anymore. No more testing tenderness, no more seasoning with cruelty. And in the absence of their favorite supply, they starve. They suffer. They spiral. You’ve flipped the butcher’s knife back toward them, and they’ll never understand how you did it without even raising your voice.

So, pay attention. Not all hugs are blessings. Some are measurements for slaughter.