LOST IN THE WOMB

CHAPTER FOUR (HOME AGAIN)

As I traveled back home, I envisaged the reactions I would get from my family. Of course, my dad's place had always been a hotbed of stern reactions, but this was an entirely different situation. Would I be bludgeoned again?

The thought of what my dad's reaction would be transited to the thought of my four days' predicament. In retrospect, I thought about how I had wasted four days, not getting the freedom I sought for. Sweat and tears commingled as I bent my head.

My belly jiggled like a bowlful of jelly when they all welcomed me with open arms. I felt as though it was a trap to prevent me from running again. Dad didn't say a word to me; stepmother repeatedly called my name; siblings gave me unfaltering gaze.

I couldn't take it anymore. The silence was more terrifying than the reaction I expected. I quaked with unrest until I felt my legs moving with an unsteady side-to-side motion. Tears had gathered in my eyes, and they voluntarily ran down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. I was just tired of everything. I went out to look for freedom..." I didn't know how the words found a voice. They kept flowing out of my mouth until I felt like I had no recourse left.

"Did you find the freedom?" dad cut in, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on me. The question traveled through the crannies of my mind in search for an answer, but it found a lie.

"Yes, sir. A pastor prayed for me and assured me that I'd never steal again," I said, as I searched through their faces to see if they believed me.

Startled, and also somewhat out of countenance, dad patted my back.

A week passed and I tried as much as possible to fight the irresistible force that had inhabited my mind. It was a force that had completely taken over me, and I seldom had control over myself. A force that would suggest places to steal to me. There were indeterminate number of times that I tried to fight the force, but it was too heavy to be thrown out of the ring. Perhaps the reason I was able to suppress the force for a week was the "I have found freedom" response I gave to my family. I couldn't withstand the disappointment that would gather like a cloud on them if they found out that I only faked the freedom I told them about.

My will seemed to have exhausted all stamina as I succumbed to the force again, and like a vehicle that had lost its brake, I sank into stealing again.

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"I'm tired of having your son live with me. I have done all I could to reset his brain. Please, come and take him away," dad told my mom over the phone. He didn't know that I was eavesdropping.

I knew I had become a burden to them, yet, I couldn't brace myself up to forgive his reason for sending me away. I blamed myself for having not committed suicide. This made marks in my heart as I felt I was the most cursed on earth. No one was going to understand me. No one was going to understand that everything I did was never willful. If I told them I was only a victim of a force, they wouldn't believe.

I began to develop bitter feelings of resentment toward myself. I resented myself because I had never wanted my mom to see me again with the same situation she had abandoned me for.

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The day came. The day I was to be sent packing. I hoped that dad would change his mind. I hoped that he would be advised otherwise. I hoped that my stepmom would influence my dad toward changing his mind. My hope dashed away like vapor in the wind when I saw my clothes packed in a rectangular-shaped bag made of some dirty burlaps. I stood, stupefied when the truth of what was about to happen dawned on me. I stylishly searched through their eyes to see if they were really excited to send me off. A sudden piercing spasm of pain engulfed me, and like a wrestler given a spasmodic jerk, I tottered.

It was quite apparent that they all felt good sending me away. Hatred enshrouded my mind. There, I decided I would hate them forever – my dad, stepmom; even my siblings. I gave them a resolute gaze as I resolved that I would recover from the trauma of the experience. I angrily picked the sack they had packed my clothes in and gave them a "what next" look.

They all bade me a concerted goodbye but I couldn't return the gesture. I began to see my dad as a complete stranger, and for the first time, I doubted if he was my biological father. I thought about how he had rejected me from the womb; how he had rejected me when I was eventually born and how he rejected me the third time. I had read about how the Biblical Peter betrayed Jesus three times, and it felt as though it was a playback of the event. I teetered on the brink of tears.