Note: I wrote this for creative writing.

Its all a bit fuzzy now, this scene in my head. Its the furthest back I can remember. My first memory. It was only recently that I revealed it to my parents and got all the little details that make it a complete picture. But I'll tell it as I remember it.
The quaint room was dimly lit with the yellow-tinge of a poor light bulb in a single lamp. It wasn't that warm, cozy kind of off-lighting. It was the kind that makes you feel off-balance and in shadow. If there was any smell in this house, it was probably of incense, the bitter, sultry ghost of nag champa, like magic and home at the same time. But my mouth tasted of salt, harsh and grainy, sharp and guilty. All sound is lost to time.
My dad was relaxing on our rough white couch, his arm along the back of it, while he watched the television. His shirt was vividly patterned in earth hues and bright yellows, collared and button-up. He used to wear it often, back in the mid 90's; I always thought it looked good on him. I was on the carpet, in front of the couch, separate from my dad, but still sharing this moment with him. We were quiet. He was waiting for something, my mom probably, but I was happy enough. The television flashed and sang, and I was mesmerized.
The doorbell may have rung. My dad might have answered the door. The next thing I knew, through the kitchen came my mother, thin and beautiful. Her entire being was permeated with  the heavy scent of perfume and woman. Intoxicating to a man, but only the smell of my mother to me. Her red hair contrasted with her black clothing, but was still bright enough to warn all predators that she was poisonous prey. She always wore black. It was the only color she liked on herself, even though black isn't a color. She walked in smoothly, quietly. She was here to pick me up, to be sweet and warm and motherly when we got home.
There was my mom, and there was my dad, and I stood by them, but separate, thinking that this was my family. They both looked down and smiled when they talked to me. And everything was happy. I was so happy- it was rare that my parents were ever in the same room together, that I got to see both of them at once. It was like nothing else. It made everything seem whole, perfect, together.
But Mom didn't smile for him, she darted about like a feral cat, muscles tense and claws out. Dad was stern, forceful, tall. They were both so tall. I could hardly see them when they scowled at each other and tried to be civilized for me. I could hardly expect anything but how sweet they were when they held my hand or hugged me goodbye. But I loved them so much, you see, and they were both so nice to me. They were my parents, and they were perfect, and they knew everything. They both loved me very much.
As always, each of my parents' side of the same tale is extremely different. However, according to both of them, from that point there was violence and yelling, hatred and threats. But I don't remember any of that. I don't remember my parents screaming at each other, or pulling, scratching, hitting. I only remember the feeling of the moment before everything fell to pieces.
I was on the floor, Dad was on the couch. We were together, waiting for my mom to come. From the dark of the kitchen she came, a smile on her face, into the dimly lit living room. There was my mom, and there was my dad, and we were together. And we were a family.