A Crime Against Her

(TW: Domestic Violence)

I always knew my mother was a hypocrite. It didn’t take brains to know that she lied when she said “I love you” to Pa. All her ‘love’ that she projected onto him was just as fake as I was, when I had to do the same. Pa, was a horrible man. It was a rule declared that the person, no matter young or old, would be punished for his slander. It was usually a cut-tongue, and worst cases led to exile of the ‘useless liars,’ and the  ‘unneeded wastes of space.’ That’s how he dumbed it down for a 5 year old me. But, if I knew better, maybe my tongue would still linger in my mouth. Feeling its warmth in the empty cavity that now has no purpose but to eat. 

I sometimes stare in the mirror, only to find a ‘dumb’ child looking back, with my neck covered in dark bruises. They scale my neck, like planted roses, daffodils scaling walls. 

I’ve always loved them. 

It showed me if I helped my mother or not. Since I could not speak, my actions came through more than my thoughts. If I helped, she would smile, and glee, and hold me up close. But if I failed, her hand would plant the same seeds that would bloom like crimson. 

Right now, her lips are chapped, and her hair barely stays, sticking in awkward lengths and angles, begging to drip away from the tight skin beneath. Her raspy breath, hot and heavy against my skin, as I hug her frail body. Just bones and skin left to defend her feeble mind. Eyes twitching, she turns her head towards me, and shudders. Her shiver glazed up her body, and down the link that connects us. Our hands. She was always so beautiful. Her midnight, navy hair, dazzling in the sunlight as we walked. Or her blue eyes, that never seemed to keep on tight to me for long, before they were snatched back into her head. Her slender waist is fastened by the ropes of a corset. She always complained how it hurt to be squished from the outside-in. Yet, it all faded away, when she saw herself in the mirror. Flattery, a woman's best friend. All I did was smile and close my eyes, and she would get it. She always chose my outfits before the day's start. She wanted to match. But I made it a goal to never wear the same thing. I feared I would overshine her grace. 

She lays on her velvet bed. The curtains draped, as if mourning her. But she is not dead yet. Her hands were warm with life and love. I smiled, pushing her to talk, to talk to me.

I squeeze her hands, a signal for conversation. 

She rolls her hazy eyes to me, my hair falling from my shoulders after the morning scrubs. Her mouth twitches, leaving an impression of a smile I yearn for.

“Have… I told.. you..yet..?” The moon glints in her wake.

I shake my head in exaggeration, letting the movements swift my hair.

“The stars… I swore to th..em… to every st..ar…” her cracked lips spit out the words.

“I swore… my life.. would be in..compl..ete  with..out a girl..” pulsing fingers drape over mine.

“And god… has..given me that wi..sh,” I’m beaming right now. I want to hug her tightly, say how I’ve been too, but then the heat from her fingers leaves mine.

“He…gave..it to.. Mee..” 

“....”

And then I feel my arms pulled down, and I’m face to face with her sickly features, her hollow eyes, and sunken bones.

She takes a moment to just stare deep into my soul, as if I should know what is about to be said right then.

“A CURSE I SAY! A CURSE!” Her eyes shoot open, and scream their agony at me. Pupils dilate, and her heart nearly jumps out. She clenches her chest, and grasps my arm by the shoulder, holding me in place with her piercing gaze.

“HE GAVE ME A STUPID GIRL! ONE THAT COULD NOT SPEAK! I LET HER TAKE MY WOMB, AND SHE SWALLOWED MY PRIDE!” 

Her fingers are now at my neck, creating wounds that may linger for a while later. Her nails dig into my skin, causing the skin to draw blood. Blood that drips down my neck, sliding past, leaving a cold remembrance. I hold her up straight, my hands caressing the soft of her back, in slow, steady motions.

“I HAVE NOT DONE ANYTHING WRONG… I only wished for a girl…” 

“But that was the first of my crimes. The worst one.” 

For a moment longer, I thought she would continue, but she goes limp, and her arms flail around my neck, ceasing their undying strangle. I let out a breath, realizing I kept it in for too long. I let her go, and she lays there, mouth wide open, pupils frozen in place, as her soul, bloodied and dyed from the pain, withers away. I held on for longer than she would’ve wished. Feeling the tips of her fingers grow cold. I stayed, until I could no longer bear to see her.

-----

Pa didn’t care to have a funeral. He did attend, for it was his wife. But all it was a simple burial of the body. A wreath was thrown amidst the small crowd. A lavender crown, that rested by the tips of her cold fingers. But that kind person was forced away, by Pa’s command, as no flower must be thrown during a funeral of this type. I was not even allowed to attend, for my father forbade me to even see the body after their death, fearing I might leave him as well. Then he’d truly be defenseless. I stood on the edge of the deep stone that came jutting out the frosted window, and stared at the procession. The prayers that fell silent, their lazy salutes. I brought my own up to my chest, and breathed, for I could not speak, I at least tried to remember. My hands stayed like that, until I was called once again, for another chore yet to be done.

I may have lost my humanity, but I wasn’t even allowed to speak the mind of a dead person.

It crushed me ever so slightly.

----

Beatings became rampant, and I no longer knew what to do. Pa asked for her final words, the soft whispers that fell out at the last of her breath. I tried to deny it. Say that none fell, but my mouth twisted and my teeth clamped, not even a whimper was coming out. Could I not even make noise? Or did I simply not want to tell her words. Whatever the case, that sentence never crossed his ears, and in turn, I was never able to sleep without the blooms on my body. It tingled when I twisted and turned, the hard cobblestone underneath my back felt uneven. I tried to practise writing, to at least get my thoughts across, but my fingers limped when holding the brush, I was scared of being thrown out. Others regarded me as a curse, but some would take it too literally. That phrase, the one mother screamed, was normal, and I knew its contents were valid. But I could never express that to another, because in their eyes, I was already useless. I did not want any more titles on my head.

The paper crumpled beneath the brush, the ink dripping onto the page with no coherent message. 

Her mind would be hidden, and her love would die with me. I made that conclusion.

If only it was that easy.

----

12 years have passed since her passing. My thin, brown hair now fell down my back, draping my neck. I’ve grown taller, and my mind has matured. They say my eyes have become dull, and my skin pale as smoke. But, most importantly, I no longer ‘wished’ to speak.

I’m invited to dinners and family talks. But, I sit in the corner, the thin glass of wine spinning in fingers, as I try to ignore the smell of cigarettes. How it was so overpowering, and stuck to me like sweat during the blazing summer months. Even the harvest season now lingers with dry sun and meaningless clouds. We often get no crops during this season, despite the name, so, people like me tend to be in the back of Pa’s mind when it comes to food. 

My dresses never accentuated me. They were all plain and flat; all being hand-me-downs from my father’s siblings who have moved in with us. The dresses either stuck too close or were too loose. It didn’t matter though. It’s not like they invite me out of consideration. During these nights, when all they have on their minds are wine and hooking-up, I stray somewhere else. 

The manor is large and grand, built to my mothers preference. Corridors line with old stains of used to be portraits. The vases now chipped with cracks in the middle. The carpets housed past grievances of guests who'd drank too much. It is clear that this manor no longer belongs to just a ‘family’. 

In the dark, I trace my fingers over the golden knobs, until I feel a dent. A callus in the knob that stands out. I push on it, and flop down onto the small leather of a bed. I was able to afford one, after working for so many years, with the pocket change I rarely received. The cushion is strained, and the pillows lumpy, but it’s the most comfort I receive at night. Next to my bed, lies a small table. A dusted lamp, a book and quill lay at its side. I pick up the book, and scan to the first page. Over these years, I've learned to write simple words and phrases to communicate with. I still cannot make sounds, so I've forgotten the movement all together, except for chewing and swallowing. But my hands now seek a new purpose. They glide across the pages as I write my thoughts. The bindings now come loose when I write too firmly, engrossed in my work. So I've figured out the trick for it to stay in place. I almost feel a little accomplished.

I do not realize how lucky I am. My hands still connect with my arms, and I have free will over it. I’m able to turn and position it to my liking. The servants in the manor could not even do that. I used to be like them. But Pa has slowly grown lenient in his ways, letting me move and swirl them in manners I’ve never known. Unlike my tongue, my fingers are long and slender, the calluses outlining the faint specks of pink. Burns and cuts now cover them whole. But, I am content with them at least being by my side.

I’ve still not forgotten my promise. I’ve never written my mother’s final words, yet they haunt my vacant mind at night. I was too young to understand the weight of the words, but now that I am able to comprehend the meaning, I feel sick. I never wanted her to feel like that. But I did not want punishment for something out of my control. Pa rarely asks now. He believes the lies I tell, and doesn’t think about it.

“Obviously, she is but a mute, dumb girl. What could she know?”

He’d justify that to his sisters when they asked.

The cousins would sometimes come up to me and talk, though I never reciprocated the laughter that followed the silence of my tongue. They don’t know that I’ve lost it. They simply think I do not wish. But how I long to. Long to tell the horrors I faced. Yet, my mouth creeps into a smile, and my eyes closed, jutting out any tears that may swell under my eyes.

“No jewels crown her head…Is she truly the daughter of a duke?”

I am not. Daughters speak and laugh with their fathers. They are bred to be wed, and then taught the duties of a housewife. They are perfect dolls, their mouths only opening to grace their husband with shallow compliments. 

I was never his daughter to begin with. I am my mothers crime. Her adolescence. Her pain. I am the curse that took it all away. Of course I do not deserve to gain attention. Knowledge. No man would ever seek me for my face nor my personality. No compliments ever fell.

For my birth was a crime, one that was against her.