Wish I Didn't Know You

(CW - domestic violence)

“You’re the only relative he has left. You have to choose.”

Words you don’t wish to hear. Not when that man ruined you, made you seem like the worst. I didn’t know he’s in a hospital. I didn’t care. Besides, I haven’t seen him in thirty years.

“What are my options?”

I want to go back home. Curl in my bed and drown myself in tears. I look around the unusually quiet ward. Though there’s people around us, I can’t hear them. All I pick up is the silence of the nurse before me and my heartbeat.

“We’d keep him on life support, although the chances of him waking up are slim, or you could sign here and let him go.”

I stare at her, speechless at what she expects me to do. I can’t be the only one. How dare he force me, once again, to do something I don’t want? After all he did to me, why wouldn’t he leave me alone? Her wide hazel eyes are full of the grief I’m expected to endure. Was she close to him? It isn’t allowed, of course, but when has he done anything right? She seems anguished by the whole situation, just like how a mother would feel if her child was passing away. Or a wife who is losing her husband. Or a daughter who’s deciding the fate of her father that’ll never breathe on his own.

“I need some time, is that okay?”

“Of course, if you need anything find me.”

As soon as I sit on the chair facing my father’s bed, the tears come burning my red cheeks. Memories flash beyond my eyes, overwhelming my senses. My breathing quickens, so I have to remind myself of what I must do when I have panic attacks. Breathe in, 2, 3, 4. Hold 2, 3, 4. Breathe out 2, 3, 4. My entire body is trembling, but I mustn’t allow distractions. Breathe in, 2, 3, 4. Hold, 2, 3, 4. Breathe out 2, 3, 4.

I was too young to recall what I was crying about. All I recollect from this vision is this: I was in the garden with my family and my favourite teddy bear, Elizabeth. Something upset me. The adults thought it was a minor issue, but seven-year-old me was too angered. I ran back to the house, lay in my bed, hugging Elizabeth while quietly letting my tears stream down my cheeks, chin, neck, pillow.

Not even a minute later, I hear him. His heavy footsteps stopped my heart and before I realised, he was in front of my face. I could feel his frightful breath and spit. As he was talking, he kept throwing me around the room, like I was nobody. “You worthless piece of shit!” My head hit the drawer beside the double bed, leaving the back of it throbbing. “What are you crying for now?” My body hit the wall, followed by the floor, as he threw me like a basketball. “Man up! You’re useless” He continued imitating my sobbing and screaming as I hit the chair. Once he threw me back on the floor, I could no longer breathe - all the air in my lungs was gone. I was sitting there, mouth open, tears aggressively running down the cheeks that now had red handprints. I saw him leave, looking cheerful, his whistling taking over the air. My grandma was now there, though she may have watched the whole show. That’s the thing. No one could tell him to stop. No one could help me or mother or, once she showed up in our lives, my sister.

Breathe in, 2, 3, 4. Hold, 2, 3, 4. Breathe out 2, 3, 4. I can’t do this. I get up, though unable to leave this room. Guilt fills my body as I feel… relieved. Whatever I decide, he’s as good as dead. He will hurt no one ever again. I might even feel free as he will no longer breathe the same air. Ignoring my instincts, I go near him, closer to his face. I could only hear his life support, couldn’t hear his chest lifting and going down manually. That is good, right? Or bad? Shame on me for feeling that way, but how can you blame me? Actually, I get it. I blame myself for those thoughts too. After all, he is my father. Family. You’d do anything for family. He certainly did - all these incidents taught me to be better, stronger. His actions may have seemed bad to me, but his intentions were good. I should be grateful. He paid for my education; saved money for me by refraining from getting some necessities for himself. He’s the good guy. I’m selfish, disgusting. And he sure as hell never let me forget.

“You pig!” I heard a shout. His raspy voice full of hate to the woman he once promised to love till death. “All you do is eat. Look how fat you are. Are you really gonna eat this? It’s a serving for three!”

More shouts followed from both sides. Then silence. I knew what that meant. So when with the following week came the silent treatment and the petty comments, there was no surprise. When my mum bought a scale and announced her new diet, there was no surprise. He was aggressive. Scary. She was petty. Knew how to hurt one’s soul with no fists.

That day I went with her to the shop. She kept throwing spiteful words about my father to me. I said nothing, though I got her. She was mad for a good reason. I already knew what would happen when we get home, so as soon as we did I went to my room and blasted loud music from my headphones. Bang! Bang! Didn’t work.

Without thinking twice I ran down the stairs, almost tripping over the two broken phones on the floor that must’ve caused the loud noise. Turns out mother threw them at my dad. I know that because, though he’d hit her a lot more often, he used this to make her seem abusive. There was shouting I couldn’t distinct. I lost my mind.

“You absolute idiot! You’re the worst person ever! Piece of shit! I wish I didn’t know you! Get out!” I aimed these words, together with a bunch of slurs, at my father. Now I had their attention.

I know I shouldn’t have said that. I couldn’t control it. Ever since I remember, those words were aimed at me. For small things that every child does. Things I couldn’t control, like coughing whilst I was ill, or having asthma attacks. When the panic attacks came around 13 (though I recall having them a lot earlier,) that made me “useless”, “an attention seeker”. I guess I had to learn all this from someone, right?

He didn’t care about my feelings. No one here cared about me, nor my sister, whose room we were in. She was watching it all unravel, all within her safe space. Father quickly used all the words I said against me. “So I’m the worst? I’m a scumbag, huh?”

I quickly started defending myself. “No, that is not what I meant. Just listen to me, please.” It didn’t matter. Chaos untangled. Mum was crying. My sister was screaming. I was trying to explain myself whilst unable to breathe. Father was shouting at me, hitting his head on the wall. I was too old for him to hit. I always thought it was because I can defend myself. Mother said my dad rarely hit me now because I’ve grown up and I should know better. Truth is, I was numb to it. So he found an alternative way to hurt me - and the rest of us. He hurt himself. Threatened to take his own life. Took the car keys. Left my sister screaming her head off. Left me breathless on the floor, unable to say anything but “I did this, it’s my fault.” It was dark out. Rain was pouring. God knows what could have happened.

I jump away from his face. Face that seems so peaceful now that his dirty brown eyes are closed. His lips are relaxed, unfit to say all those words that once ruined me. I look through the window, incapable of watching my dead father. Though it’s only 4pm, the mid-December day’s almost over. I was watching tiny snowflakes desperately trying to create a snow path big enough for the children to go out and throw snowballs at each other.

I always loved snow. It brought inner peace. Gave me another excuse to wrap up in a fluffy blanket on the sofa, bring hot chocolate and read a Christmas-spirited book. I rarely went out of my room when I wasn’t alone in the house, but for the past six months nothing too big had happened, so I decided no one could ruin such a perfect setting. I was so wrong!

By now I’d learned to ignore the shouting coming from the kitchen. I had a plan - told my sister to stay away, and never believe them should they put her in the middle and tell her they’re separating. When she was young, that was her worst nightmare. It, unfortunately, never happened. That was yet another way they’d torture us. If it got too scary, I took her to the nearest park for an hour or two. Last thing I wanted for her was to grow up like me.

I tried to continue as I was, though I could no longer concentrate. The shouting continued for what felt like aeons. As it became louder, I thought I’ve had enough. I rose when I heard a gunshot.

I duck down, too inadequate to react properly. My sister, however, ran downstairs too quick for me to grab her and take her out. “MAMA!” Bang.

He did it. He killed my family. I ran for the door whilst trying to call 911. Where had that gun came from? Is this real? Must be a nightmare. I heard loud steps that brought back seven-year-old me. I was back, thrown around. Hit with heavy zipper clothing. Pushed down the stairs. Punched till bruises covered my body. Forced to do things no child should. No. Something was holding me back. “911, what’s your emergency?” Bang.

I run out of the room, grasping for air. Almost running over the nurse, I shout a little too loud “I’ve made my decision”

“Isabel!” she says, ignoring the panic in my voice. “I have great news. I was just coming to tell you. Your dad…”

“Kill him. I can’t let him hurt anyone else. I don’t want him around.”

The shock in her eyes registers in my brain a little too late. She must think I’m out of my mind. Maybe I am. But if she had seen the news thirty years ago, she’d know why I am so sure of my decision. “I think I have a better idea…” She spoke softly, gently, as if I’d break before her eyes if she raised her voice.

“What is better than an abusive murderer finally dying? You think I am going to force you to use all recourses on someone who doesn’t deserve life? You think there’s anything he deserves more than death?” My voice remains loud, causing everyone to look at us.

“I completely understand where you come from. Hey, Isabel, listen to my voice.” She remains calm and tries to simmer down the panic atttack I appear to be having, the same way my therapist would. Though I look like a wreck, hyperventilating and shaking, I feel nothing but numbness. Nothing but a hole in my chest. Though years have passed, I could now feel where the bullet punctured my thigh. It wasn’t pain - it was an unfamiliar feeling that left me paralysed. “He is a bad person, that can do good. We have a child in the hospital in desperate need of a kidney transplant. Your father is a perfect match. With your consent, we can give this boy a second chance.”

“Do the parents know about…”

“They do. They agree if you do.”

“Where do I sign?” I ask quickly, before the thought of part of him still being alive takes over the best of me.

Two of the most important people are gone because of him. I craved revenge, but nothing I’d do now would be good enough. Death isn’t payback for all the lives he’d ruined. Instead, he can finally do something good. It won’t bring my mum and sister back, but it would save someone. Besides, this might just be the best revenge for a person who could cause nothing but pain. Maybe his spirit is watching, wanting to scream at me, wanting to be saved over the boy. I smile at the thought of his desperation.

I will get over his death. I will try to get over the pain and trauma he’d caused. Though 46 years later, nothing had changed. Maybe one day I will not feel guilty about my happiness. One day, maybe, I will find the love of my life, who will make me feel the luckiest. One day, my children will grow up to be better parents. I, myself, am a better parent thanks to all the mistakes he had done. Maybe something good came from all the suffering I had to go through. And I hope, with all my heart and soul, that this boy will grow up to be a man, one who is kind, intelligent, loved. One who doesn’t kick his kid and shout at them for crying. One who will never raise his voice, or hand, at his family. I hope with all my heart and soul, that this boy will never, ever, be like my father, or any so-called man who has the audacity to be so cruel towards the only people who’d ever love him.