Shirt unbuttoned – unsteady steps – red eyes – and the
smell of wine walked into the room.
The two year old pair of eyes had known this sight by
now, and also knows what comes next.
Utensils pushed to the floor, spilled food, filthy
words to mother, banging on the table and shouts.
The two year old pair of hands has stopped pressing
her ears. It no more made her heart beat faster. It no more made her body
shiver. No more made her hide behind her mother. So what that daddy pushed her
food off the table, too? It no more mattered to her. It no more made her hungry
in the middle of the night. And most importantly, it no more made her cry.
She has seen daddy push mommy, bang her head on the
wall. She has seen mommy’s blood diluting with her tears. She has seen blood,
violence in her own home. Between her own parents.
She has known it to be Life. FAMILY. HOME.
But, after nineteen more years from then, when for
the first time, mommy hid behind her, scared, and she saw daddy walking towards
them with a broken wine bottle to injure them.
She held her mommy tight, and whispered, ‘I’ll
protect you.’
When mommy clutched to her more tightly, she felt
twenty-one years of unrest cloud her mind, her judgments, her rights and
wrongs, her morals.
Through the teary eyes, she saw the knife on the
kitchen table and the broken wine bottle. She saw daddy coming, his unsteady
steps, red eyes. She felt mommy’s grip around her waist.
And she clutched the knife, and ran.
Towards daddy.
Towards his stomach.
The knife went through. The twenty one years of rage
did the rest. Pulled it sideways, diagonally, tearing the skin, and with it, the
soft muscles. She felt the lump in the throat, the hands sticky from blood, and
the growing indifference in her.
For the rest of the night, a mother and a daughter sat
beside a dead body. No words. No tears. Just plain staring.
And the smell
of blood throughout the room.
