ECHOES OF MY MOLESTED CHILDHOOD

In commemoration of 16 Days of activism against women and children, I share this essay...

I hear the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. There’s a loud bang as it comes to a stop. It must have hit the bucket and mop that stood against the wall. He is drunk.

A cloud of fear suddenly envelops the house, intoxicating the warm atmosphere. I feel my limbs weakening. My younger sister goes mute. My mother shudders across the room, getting the tray ready to serve dinner. Fear is silently shared among us.

He staggers through the kitchen door with bloodshot eyes, without acknowledging my mother standing by the table; he walks through to the living room and collapses on the couch next to the TV. He mumbles senseless things in slurred speech. I can’t tell what he’s saying and I don’t care. I look at him with loathing, wishing he was dead. I hate him, I hate the fact that he is my father and I hate his blood that runs in my veins.

I stare at the TV and all I see are moving images. I just stare, trying not to look at him, trying to make him fade away.

He changes the channel without even considering that my sister and I are watching and immediately drifts to sleep. I sit and wonder what he thinks of us, if he has any care in the world for his kids.

My mother walks in with a tray of food and places it in front of him. She gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. He opens his big red eyes and lowers them to the tray. He hardly looks at her. She tells him that his supper is ready in a soft voice like she’s begging for approval. She leaves to collect our plates. He stares at his food, digs one scoop into it, chews slowly and sinks back into his couch.

I struggle to eat. I tell my mother I’m full and she instructs me to finish my plate. I pretend to eat and my sister does the same. I tell my mother I’m off to bath and sleep. She asks my father to switch back to the channel we were watching but he ignores her. My sister and I leave the room.

I later notice that all he ate was that one scoop of food. My mother takes his plate back to the kitchen and places it in the microwave, saying that maybe he’ll want to eat it the next day.

I lie in bed angry, hating my life and hating the fact that my mother won’t stop loving this man. I eventually drift to sleep.

I’m later woken up by sounds of my mother screaming for help. I hear bangs against the wall. Is he hitting her head against it? What has she done wrong? He repeatedly shouts that he will kill her. She begs for mercy. I run to their door and shout for him to open it but he won’t. I know that neighbours can hear this commotion but they won’t intervene. They never do. We’re on our own. I keep banging the door. She won’t stop screaming and the claps and bangs from inside their bedroom won’t stop.

I go back to my bed and coil myself up into a ball. I hear his gun cocking. She apologizes and begs him not to shoot her. I try to close my ears, hoping against the sound of a gunshot that will take my mother away. Maybe this is the night that he will finally kill her.  

Then I remember my grandmother’s words that prayer can help in any situation and begin to pray. I pray for God to come and rescue us from this hell. I pray that He keeps my mother safe.

It’s 4am now and I’m still praying. My mother sounds like she doesn’t have enough breath left to scream. At least she’s still alive. I pray until I drift to sleep.

It’s 8am. I wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs and fries. I walk to the kitchen to find my mother making breakfast. Her face is swollen and her eyes are puffy from crying. She wears a pretence smile as she places the eggs perfectly on my father’s plate.

I fail to understand her position and wish I can shake her into reasoning. Anger builds up inside me. I walk to my parent’s bedroom. The door is slightly open and my father’s tall thin figure is thrown on the bed. He almost looks unconscious. I push the door open, slide in and push it back the way it was. The smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes fills the room. I wonder how my mother sleeps in here. He is topless. I wonder if he forced himself on her. I stare at him with complete utter hatred. His side drawer is slightly open. That’s where he keeps his gun, his weapon of power. I pull the drawer open and see the gun lying there.

I pick it up. It’s heavier than I thought. I aim it in his face. I want to fire countless shots to make sure he doesn’t survive. I imagine peace that would come thereafter. This man would be gone and we would not fear anymore. My mother would be safe and our pain would slowly begin to heal. My hands begin to shake and my arms get weak. At that moment I hear my mother calling from the kitchen, my father takes a deep breath and moves his shoulder like he is getting ready to wake. I quickly put the gun back in the drawer and leave the room.

My mother tells me breakfast is almost ready. I nod and walk out to the veranda. It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. I watch people walk to church with bibles under their arms. Neighbours wave as they go about their day, like they don’t know the truth. Birds chirp, dogs bark and children play. All is back to normal until the sun sets, until my father’s next drink...