‘You don’t teach me manners,’ I said.
‘Go away,’ he said.
I shook my head. I saw the tears on my mother’s face. My face burned with rage. She
had lived with this for twenty-five years. I did know why – to bring me up; I didn’t know
how she did it.
My father lifted his hand to hit me. Automatically, I grabbed his wrist tight.
‘Oh, now you are going to raise your hand against your own father,’ he said.
I twisted his arm.
‘Leave him, he won’t change,’ my mother panted.
I shook my head at her, my eyes staring right into his. I slapped his face once, twice,
then I rolled my hand into a fist and punched his face.
My father went into a state of shock, he couldn’t fight back. He didn’t expect this; all
my childhood I’d merely suffered his dominance. Today, it wasn’t just about the broken
glass. It wasn’t only that the girl I loved would be gone. It was a reaction to two decades
of abuse. Or that’s how I defended it to myself. For how else do you justify hitting your
own father? At that moment I couldn’t stop. I punched his head until he collapsed on the
floor. I couldn’t remember the last time I reveled in violence like this. I was a studious
child who stayed with his books all his life. Today, I was lucky there wasn’t a gun at
home.
This insanity passed after five minutes. My father didn’t make eye contact with me.
He sat on the floor, and massaged the arm I had twisted. He stared at my mother, with a
‘see, I told you’ expression.
My mother sat on the bed, fighting back her emotions. We looked at each other. We
were a family, but pretty screwed up as they come. I took a broom and swept the broken
glass into a newspaper sheet. I looked at my father and vowed never to speak to him
again. I picked up the newspaper with the glass pieces and left the room.
nora
(Nora)
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