At this point, I had lost count of the punches.
I had gotten used to them. It was normal for me to get smacked here and there.
A little burn here. A little bruise there.
My body had hardened like a diamond. Not literally. I was nobody’s diamond lol.
Let’s look at the reasons for these frequent knock-out sessions…..
Talking to a boy? Smack.
Is homework not done? Smack.
Stole money from his wallet? Smack.
Lie about the test? Smack. Smack. Smack.
Yeah, the lying one was REAL bad. You know how sometimes you are just…. icked by some things?
You are just SO repulsed by those things when you see them that you just want to get away from it asap.
Like I find snakes icky. Also, mow hawks.
In the same way, he found Lying disgusting and sinful.
Unfortunately, I had mastered the art of lying. Wait! That can be a book title no? ‘Master the Art Of Lying.’
You could still get a pass for the first three mistakes, but LYING?? Nuh-uh.
Anyways, the worst of the worst punishments were the piping hot tongs.
If I lied about something 20th time…… Oh boy…..
Kept the tongs over the burning flame.
Dragged me to the kitchen.
Twisted my arm.
Picked up the tongs and then ……. you know what? Use your imagination.
The few initial times it hurt. Burned like a dragon’s breath on my face.
Did I improve? Stop making mistakes? Hell no.
Did I become rebellious? Nope. Nuh-uh.
Did I hit him back? C’mon, man. The ship does not sink into the sea. It’s the other way around.
I continued with my mischievous life.
Never held a boy’s hand, but still talked to them.
Paid attention in class but never did my homework.
Still stole money from his wallet though. THAT mistake was repeated. Don't blame me, those popsicles were kryptonite for a kid like me. It’s beside the point that my stomach hurt like a bitch later.
You must be wondering ….. did her mom not step in?
She did. A THOUSAND times she interrupted him.
He would be holding me by the hair and using the wall as a bongo, he would play crappy music. And the only sound that would come out of me was of a wounded animal left to die in the middle of a highway.
And then she would step in…..
She would snatch me away from him…. her eyes red….
and then proceed to play a whole orchestra on a different wall.
Anyways….
Fast forward 15 years…. and here we are…
As I was saying…. At this point, I had gotten used to the punches.
I am lying down sideways on the ground in my room, staring at the little hearts I had drawn on my bedroom wall from the first time he brought me watercolors.
The painful way in which my lower stomach was throbbing since morning has stopped now.
It hasn’t gotten better though.
I think it’s just numb.
Numb from all the kicks that he is delivering right now right into my lower stomach. Man his legs are really strong.
I tried to run away when all this started, ten minutes ago. I tried to resist and said sorry like an idiot.
But a man has needs you know? Horniness and anger are hard to control for men. Won’t you agree?
What was the reason you say? The reason was….. hold on!
I don’t remember.
All this pain and numbness. It was making me forgetful of my mistakes.
It doesn't matter though. We are too much into it, and going back is no use at this point.
My body will do what it always does, cry like a wounded animal, and wait until his rage reaches ground level.
Everything will be alright in a few minutes Mary, I pep-talk myself this repeatedly.
I squeeze my eyes as he gets red with anger.
I clench my buttocks as a hard whip sound cuts the air when the pipe hits my bottom.
I think of the red little hearts on my walls every time the word ‘Bitch’, ‘Whore’, ‘Bastard’, and ‘Motherfucker’ comes out of his mouth.
I pray to god every time a tear slides down from the corner of my eye into my ear.
I look helplessly at her when the kicks get harder on my stomach. She with her squared shoulders and raised eyebrows and hands on hips. She with her regrets about having me all those years ago.
Her with her thinking that her womb was cursed all those years ago.
She looks at me ….. and I don’t know if I imagine this, but I think her lips move and spell, ‘You deserve this.’
It breaks me you know? It breaks me knowing that she knows, she fucking knows he shouldn’t be doing this. She knows that it’s THE WEEK.
Beat me if you want dad. But not now. JUST not now. Maybe next week? JUST NOT NOW.
I’ll come over with a plastic pipe for you next week.
JUST.NOT. NOW.
After a few minutes when he knows that he can’t go any longer and thinks that he has made me better for the rest of my life… he leaves the room with her.
But not before both say a few choice words that would make Satan cry, and give me a look of disgust.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I get up slowly from my position on the ground.
The first thing I do is lock the door.
I can feel my eyes swelling and my runny nose making my lips twitch.
But I don’t pay attention to it.
I haphazardly peel off my pants and underwear and look at my sanitary pad.
It was a little bit red in the morning. Like a little rising sun at 6 am.
Now it looks like a battlefield at twilight.
There are spots of red, dark red, and brown all over it.
I take a deep breath. Open my bedside drawer.
Take out a fresh pad.
I slowly peel off the old one and stuff it in a plastic bag and then put a fresh-scented one on.
I wash my hands with jasmine soap.
Scrub my face and look in the mirror to see if I look cute when I cry.
I don’t.
I look like someone I don’t like looking at.
Finally, I climb inside my one true love, my big fluffy blanket, and close my eyes.
Post-mistreat sleep feels relaxing.
All is good in my world again .
Thanks ..........
