The taste is so overpowering, it makes me want to vomit.
The room reeks of regret; the blood splattering’s on the wall, the broken lampshade on the ground, the stained bed sheets tossed onto one side of the bed. How is this possible? How could I let this happen…again?
I was 7 when I first saw dad hit my mother.
It happened so quickly I was unsure if what I saw was real. The five-finger imprint on mom’s face though confirmed it was true. He hit her all the time after that; sometimes in front of my younger brother and I and sometimes in the privacy of their bedroom. I’d hear things being thrown around as well as her muffled screams, which eventually became unbearable. Anything would tick him off; dirty dishes in the sink when he got home from work, mom saying “thank you” to the driver a little too friendly, or simply asking what time he’d be home for dinner.
I hated him for what he did to her.
He made her weak. Mom was constantly living in fear of when the next beating would come. I heard her crying every morning in the bathroom after he left for work. It was unbearable. We lost her when I was 17. To be honest, it was only after her death that I found some relief. Shocking, yes, but I was happy that she was finally free of him. Dad was devastated when she died. It was almost funny. He said he couldn’t imagine life without her.
Mom overdosed on YOU, not those pills.
As I went off to college I saw less and less of dad. I vowed never to let anyone make me a victim like he had made mom. He never deserved her; she was too good for him. 15 years later and look at me now. I’m lying on the floor here, post “World War III,” hands shaking, mind racing, in shock. This isn’t the first beating, it’s the 7th. The seventh time I’ve let this happen. The seventh time clothes have been ripped. The seventh time screams have filled the air. The seventh time I’ve blacked out. The seventh time I’ve relived my mother’s life; a life I despised and dreaded. No, no more. This can’t continue. It has to end.
I hear police sirens coming from outside the window. Shanel has just barged into the room. Two police officers are running in right behind her. Shanel runs over towards me yelling, “Danielle! Danielle! Oh my god! Malcolm, what have you done to my sister?” One of the police officers pulls out a pair of handcuffs and starts walking angrily towards me.
I look to my right and my eyes are met with the horror of Danielle’s bloody, lifeless body lying next to me. Oh my god! What have I done? What have I done to my wife! Danielle! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! I love you! Shanel is sobbing and cradling Danielle’s head in her hands. My arms are behind my back while the cuffs are tightly closing in on my wrists. I’m dizzy and my tears are clouding my vision.
How is this possible?
How could I let this happen again?
As the cops walk me out to the squad car I realize that my worst fears have finally come to pass. I’m left with nothing but the ugly truth; I’m just like him, I’m just like my daddy.
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