I don't remember seeing the dinner plate flying through the air, but the sound it made when it crashed against the wall caused me to jump. I don't remember the precursor for the plate to go flying, nor do I remember the specific aftermath.

I remember a cacophony of voices as adults and teenagers shouted over the top of one another.

All the while, I sat, watching a slice of Beetroot slide down the wall.

While the din around me grew louder and louder, I sat, watching the Beetroot slice slide down the wall, a bright bluish-red smear left behind as it succumbed to gravity.

I don't remember seeing the culmination of the Beetroot's doomed journey but the image of the Beetroot and the smear it left has stayed with me over the years.

I remember being transfixed as the Beetroot slid towards obscurity. It's destiny, unavoidable; but defiantly leaving it's mark.