It all started with a fight.
My mom was never seen after father cruelly hit her, bruising her face, ruining our family. Though waiting was neither my habit nor my attitude, I yearned for mom to come back for me.
I waited for years but she seemed to forget me.
I was 9 when she left, scared and confused. After 5 years of waiting, 5 years of suffering, 5 years of trembling knees; I was womanized by dad’s inflicted fear, torture and terror.
I believed no one could save me from the hell I was in. No one.
So, I stopped waiting for her. I started hoping for him.
<<<<<>>>>>
After peddling rugs on the street, I was not excited to go home and even wished for a speedy truck to hit me and crush my skull. I knew he was waiting for me, standing by the door with belt in his hands, ready to hit me if I would not give him the money I earned.
My steps were slow not just because I was scared but because I felt pain in every step I made; pain he created last night. It swelled.
Years ago, he would hit me, punch me, starve me or slap me; but last night was different. I saw Satan in disguise as he forcefully entered me, breaking the last intact piece I had.
Last night, I gave up hoping for dad to change.
I entered our house and unusually, I felt comfortable; a feeling that was a stranger to me the last 5 years. Where was dad? Hope he’s gone! Thinking he’s gone or dead was a pleasure.
I made my way upstairs, slowly, carefully; not making a single sound because if dad was somewhere inside he would probably hear my footsteps, so carefully I tiptoed.
That strategy had saved me before, though not many times. I was using it again with the same hope; be safe. I opened my bedroom door and slid in swiftly and for the first time, I smiled; I made it!
But the smile faded quickly when I saw him on my bed. Naked and evil.
“Last night was awesome” he said.
I did not bother to reply. I had no voice over him. No choice.
“Come here baby. Come to daddy.” he was smiling but he couldn’t trick me.
“I have to prepare dinner,” I said and then turned back, opened the door and hurriedly flew to the kitchen.
I heard him groan, a groan different from last night.
I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs. Fueled by adrenaline, I quickly hid myself in the kitchen cabinet. In a moment he entered the kitchen.
I was sitting on a cold floor yet my sweat soaked me, my breath was heavy and forced. He was gifted with senses and he found and grabbed me; pulling me from my hideout.
“How dare you turn your back to me!” he screamed.
I raised my arms and said “I’m sorry.” But he was too furious to hear me.
He dragged me to my bedroom.
When he was through, I decided to fight.
Mom was not brave enough to fight him. She was intimidated by his iron fist, afraid of his power, ruled by his thorns; she was coward. She was dad’s puppet, dad’s slave.
“I need fucking money, I know you have some!” He demanded.
“Money, for what?” Mom asked with her softest voice.
“Don’t fuck with me Lisa! My friends are waiting for me outside.”
“And you are concern with them? What about us Danny?”
“Shut up! You are just my wife and nothing more! Now give me the fucking money I needed!” He angrily shouted.
“I don’t have money for your beer!” Mom whispered as she turned her back to him.
“I know what you want bitch!” He furiously said.
He dragged mom outside the house and punched her. That wasn’t the first time he hit her, mom had the bruises and scars to prove it, but what made it more wounding was dad hit her in front of his alcoholic friends who seemed too pleased of his cruelty.
It broke my heart.
I was young but I could feel how humiliated and hurt mom was that night. I hated him and I wondered why mom swallowed all her ego and let dad treated her like nothing allowing him stomped over her dignity for years.
That night, dad took the little money that mom had saved and spent it over his beer. Dad never had a job and if he would have one, he would not make it far and dropped it. It was mom who worked for our family. Sometimes, I worked too.
I hugged her but she noticed no one. She kept on pushing me away everytime I would hug her. She cried herself to sleep; my mom was more than hurt and she had enough. I never saw her when I woke up; she ran away and left me scorched in hell.
My mind was flooded with questions why she did not take me with her.
“Is that Linda? Mrs. Florence asked.
“Yes, my daughter.” My mom answered.
“How old is she? Beautiful girl.”
“Eight.”
“Oh, she looks exactly like her father. Look at her big brown eyes.”
“I just hope she will inherit your traits Lisa.” The woman whispered.
<<<<<>>>>>
The wind was cold outside. My dad slept beside me. I stood up; my vengeful soul pulled my devastated body. I saw blood stains on the bed sheet. I lost my self for the second time. Hot tears rolled over my cold pale face.
The ticking of the clock was keeping me awake. It was mid night. I did not want to wait another minute; I did not want to waste another second. I was determined. I will end my agony tonight. I would wait no more!
I will fight for my self!
I walked to the kitchen with head over my heart, pain over the long lost love. With a knife in my hand I went back to the bedroom with one single determined objective.
I opened the door, he was still sleeping. I walked toward him and stabbed his chest! I stabbed him once, twice, and more. His blood splattered over me.
I killed my father.
Freedom at last!
<<<<<>>>>>
10 years later
He’s dead but the pain he caused me was still haunting my memory. Killing him did not mean forgetting what he had done and forgetting the pain. He was gone yet still close. Very close.
I could still feel him and his wrath over me. Sometimes, he appeared in my dreams making them nightmares. Sometimes through the white walls and ceilings, I even heard him laughing.
I would see blood stains on my white bed sheet.
Once I was terrified to see him in a white robe, asking me “How are you today, Linda?”
I panicked, still afraid. “I have to prepare dinner!” I said.
He smiled but when I attacked him, the other men in white gave me a shot.
I was alone in my white room waiting again; but not for my mom to return and save me, for the inner wounds to heal so they would let me out of here!
“Linda, you have a visitor.”
I turned to see that it was a woman.
“Hello Linda, do you remember me?” she asked sobbing, her eyes full of tears.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She cried even more and her sobs got louder.
I turned my back to her facing the white wall scratching its dull paint with my fingernail and waited.
End
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