THAT DAY

THAT DAY

        Immediately I got home, I rushed upstairs, shut my room, and began to play very loud and depressing music. That was my routine every day after school, and my parents didn’t bother to come and ask me to turn down the music. Could they dare, especially when they knew that they were the cause? Tears streamed down my eyes as I could hear the screams of my mother as she begged for her life. My dad was at it again. He had come home very angry because of his inability to get a job and had decided to take it out on his wife. I remembered the glimpse I had of my mother trying to shield herself as he threw a glass vase at her. The glass shattered right before her. I thought about what would have happened if she hadn’t tried to elude it. That was too much for me to bear. I had seen him beat her on countless occasions with all kinds of objects but never had I seen him throw something that could cause her to bleed to death right in front of my eyes.

        I took my phone and looked at the keypad with great pain. Part of me wanted to call the police on him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Neither could I imagine how life would be for my mother and me without him in it. My mother loved him, regardless of the many scars he had inflicted on her. These were one of the things I could never understand about women. I had overheard her friends telling her to report the abuse to the authorities. One of them even threatened to do so on her behalf, but her response was the same, “I love Victor, and I know he would change.” As I looked at the phone, I felt it would be a great betrayal to my mum if I called the police. I sat down and began to meditate on the words of the song I was playing in my room. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to put in the call. Then I did the one thing my mum had asked me never to do.

        I didn’t know what pulled me, but all I found myself doing was dragging my feet to the hall to join my mum to beg my dad to leave her alone. As soon as my mum saw me, she shouted at me to get back upstairs. Her warnings and pleas fell on deaf ears. I had had enough of it, and I was tired of seeing this every day. My grades were dropping in school, and it wasn’t a shock to any of them. I couldn’t learn in a house where there was a lot of screaming, and each second, I risked losing either or both parents. I couldn’t even concentrate in class and was gradually becoming withdrawn from all my friends.

        My dad ordered me to get back up in a threatening voice. I felt he would pounce on me any moment from then, but I didn’t leave. At that moment, I felt that dying would be better than living. Besides, who or what was I living for. I walked towards my mother and hugged her. He became irritated and threw a bottle at me. As fate would have it, I felt the pieces of glass scratch my face before falling into a hundred pieces. The pain was excruciating, and blood flowed so freely and blinded my vision. I screamed and cried as I fell to the floor. That was the last thing I remembered.

        When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. Apparently, my mum had placed the call I should have placed at the very beginning. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes sent me into a state of shock. I saw my dad holding my mum so affectionately as she continued to sob. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “how could she be hugging the guy that almost sent me to an early grave?” I closed my eyes in so much pain and wished to be like the regular kids. My best friend used to tell me about how his mum and dad still go on dates and how theirs was a happy family. For me, that seemed too much like a fantasy.

        I spent a week in the hospital. I dreaded going back to the place where it all began, a place I longed to call home. Eventually, I had no choice. I had been away from school for close to a month. Those were the best days of my life. My parents had never argued ever since the incident, and I didn’t have to go to school. My classmates kept dropping gifts and get well soon notes occasionally. My best friend had stopped by a couple of times to keep me posted about what was happening in school. Gradually, I began to feel better, both physically and psychologically. Then my mother told me that I had to return to school. I tried to reason with her on several occasions, but she wouldn’t have any of it. I wasn’t ready to face people, and I wasn’t prepared to lie about what happened. She seemed to have that sorted out already. She told everyone in school, in the neighborhood, and even her close friends that I fell from the stairs, and that was how I had that injury on my head. I didn’t think they would buy it, but they did. The truth was our little family secret, but I decided to write it in my diary, not caring if anyone found out. Nobody ever spoke of that incident in the house. And my father never raised his hand to touch anyone again. My little sister was born a year afterward, and she came to meet a peaceful family. Anytime I look at the big scar across my forehead, I remember the pain of the past, but quite frankly, I thank God I didn’t dial 911 that day.