There I was, sitting in the corner of the room with tears flowing down my cheeks as she ate punches from his fist.
I watched him pull her hair as he listened to the melodies in her screams since they satisfied his deeds.
Her long hair grew shorter, her beautiful black melanin skin was tattooed with bruises, and her pretty eyes turned black.
He seized her liberty, enslaved her right to get educated because he was afraid that they might BE EQUAL or she might stand up to him.
So he tried in every way to make her the submissive one, and he, her Dominant.
He said “I feed you and I wouldn’t hit on you if I didn’t love you! Hush when I’m talking.”
No wait, that sounded “peaceful” and “nice”. Let me take it back.
He said “You are nothing but a piece of S.H.I.T and an illiterate! Shut the F.U.C.K up when I’m talking.”
She cried her guts out after the abuse but was deceived with flowers and an apology, “If I don’t hit you then I don’t love you.”
I wish I could tell you more, but you wouldn’t handle it.
I wouldn’t want you to bear my yoke or carry my burden. Your eyes would be sore if you saw what I’ve seen.
I wouldn’t want you to see how he manhandled HER in every possible way.
Yes, HER. My mother. The woman who carried me for nine months, I watched him kick her like a ball.
I saw it. I saw it all and now these memories are haunting me.
They’ve imprisoned and made me numb.
How can I love another when this “supposed-to-be protector” of mine turned into my nightmare?
A nightmare who claims “it isn’t love if it doesn’t hurt.”
I wouldn’t want you to hear the things I’ve heard; the echoes in his tune as he calls her “whore”, “slut”, “bitch.”
I watched her beg him to “save some of the beating for the next day.”
Unsure of making it to the next day after his last hit, she pulled me closer and told me “This too shall end.”
But mama, WHEN will this end?
After you’ve been strangled by the concoction of alcohol and cigarettes?
After your legs tremble and your spine freezes when you hear loud noises? When you are startled at the slightest possibility of being touched?
“It isn’t love if it hurts.” These were her last words as she peacefully closed her eyes.
What should I say? Imagine a twelve-year-old being forced to grow up without a mother.
Now, who do I run to? This Monster who abused my mother?
I wish, I wish I could have helped her out when she cried “Please make it stop!”
I wish I could have pulled him by his shirt, but he would’ve had a grasp of my throat before letting me say: “Why are you doing this to her? “
Aren’t fathers supposed to love their daughters? Aren’t fathers supposed to be their daughters’ safe place? Their protector? Their rock? Why then is mine so vicious?
Now I flinch when someone tries to caress me.
I’m afraid to be touched or loved by someone of his gender. I get triggered when I hear screams and door slams.
There is a wall built upon fear, hate, and anger inside of me.
My spine trembles as the thought of meeting a man like him clicks through my head.
Each night I wet my pillow, so angry at myself for not fighting my mom’s battles with her.
Now depression sneaks in and anger kicks me from all angles.
Bitterness leads me into feeding these demons speaking on the inside by slitting my wrist.
You don’t know how it ends,
But as she said ‘It is not love if it hurts’
Authored by: Joyce Nimely
Featured Image by: Jeffrey Riley on Unsplash
