The Scars Within

Domestic violence

I was about six years old when my mother had a friend. She was head over heels for this guy. He stayed in another city, not too far from us. I remembered they used to talk for hours, even I talked to him, too. He was so nice and said the right things and before I knew it; he moved into our little two-bedroom apartment. My first encounter with him, I was overjoyed. I didn't know this man no more than my mom or my sister did, but I still called him daddy as he was the only man around I knew.

Something about him gave me a fatherhood like feeling and I just thought how good it felt to have a family. My sister completely hated him.

I didn't understand it. She was a lot older than me, so she understood things I was too young to, so maybe she saw what I couldn't. I fell into his charms, as did my mother.

My mom kind of just rooted my sister's reasons for disliking him as being a child that was going through her early teenage hormones, nothing more. I wished my sister could've told me what she saw. Maybe it could've helped me, too. This guy came into our lives and immediately played a role. He made a home with us and he seemed really cool. He would take us out places like the movies or parks, amusement parks.

He bought us game consoles, played games with us, and we had a family night many times.

This guy was also intellectual. He knew what he was talking about. There was absolutely nothing wrong with who he was. He was just too good to be true.

As more time passed, the side I never thought I'd see unraveled. I got a taste of his violent streak. It was like he took a mask off. He and my sister fought a lot, sometimes physically. Whenever my mom and he got into arguments, he was loud, arrogant and rude. He was abusive, and he didn't care. I didn't know he was even hurting my mom until I saw the bruises and it confused me how she would forgive him and that they would fall back into the same cycle. This life that I thought was so perfect had another side I wasn't ready for. As crazy as this was, I also didn't change how I saw him. I figured if my mom forgave him, then why couldn't I?

After all, he never hurt me is what I told myself, although he did in a way.

Regardless, he was still nice to me.

Eventually, I got a piece of his bad side.

I remembered the first time he yelled at me was because my mom got off work late as she worked for a nursing home.

It was nearly midnight, and she'd forgotten her key; I think. Whatever the case was, she knocked on the door. I approached and asked who it was. She told me it was her hand to unlock the door. I knew my mother's voice more than I knew anything in this world, so I definitely let her in, but her boyfriend was pissed. He screamed at me so harshly for doing it; I cried. Then that started another argument with him and my mom. So again, he hurt her, and I felt so bad, like it was my fault.

There was another incident where they'd gotten into a fight and he got violent, of course, and at that point he'd been with us for half a year, I think.

I was over his shit, so I thought.

Six-year-old me burst through their bedroom door and pounced on his back. I screamed for him to stop hurting my mother and to leave her alone. Of course, none of it did anything and my sister pulled me off. I had so many hot tears spilling out. They were angry tears. The good part about that situation was that had I not done that, something else would've happened.

That night, he had a knife that he held to her and could've killed her impulsively had I not found my courage to stop him. I remember that same night; he threatened to toss me out of their bedroom window that was on the second floor if I ever jumped on him again. How sick do you have to be to say that to a child?