CWRC Anthology

BURNING AND SHINING

©2023 Praise Abraham (PeculiarPraise)

Brought to you by Christian Writers and Readers Club 

Heads up: There are mentions of some potentially triggering stuff like self-harm, suicidal thoughts and abuse in this story. If these disturb you, I'd advise you to scroll past them.

But please read on, because at the end of the darkest night, the dawn shines bright.

~~~

The yelling coming from my parent's room hasn't stopped. It's been about 1 hour 23 minutes 16 seconds since they began their usual battle-ring routine; I'm counting. Trembling, I whisper desperate prayers: blood mustn't flow, not this time. 

"You piece of nonsense. You're the greatest mistake I ever made!" I hear my mom's shaky voice squeak. 

The loud echo of a hot slap on a cheek—definitely his hand on my mom's cheek—tingles my eardrums. I hear the struggle, the upturning of their entire room, which I am certain I'll be forced to clean up. 

I wish someone would intervene and stop them. We live in a block of flats in the downtown city. I guess our neighbours are already sick of trying to help settle our family issues. 

That man never listens to anyone. He's as hard as titanium. Till date I wonder how he got Mom to say yes to him—hypnosis, maybe.

Once, I sobbed along with my mom, after another bashing round. Happy memories from before my real dad was killed in a freak accident flitted through my mind. 

I asked mom why she hadn't divorced my stepfather yet. 

She gazed at me through teary eyes and said she loves my brother and me too much to hurt us that way. 

Then, I thought it was a dumb excuse. I mean, couples divorce every day and their kids survive it. I would be better off without seeing that ogre of a stepfather beating my mom every day. I resented him.

My stepfather came in half-drunk and very late, yet again. My mom let out her frustration and exhaustion at him. He snapped and hit her. He's still hitting her. 

There's a noise of something crashing and a yelp from my mom. I huddle closer to my baby brother, so glad that he is deeply asleep despite the tumult. 

I fear for Justin's mental state. I feel so protective of him. I don't want him to be scarred like I already am. He's only five, and as his older, albeit stepsister, it's my duty to protect him. I tug him closer to me on the couch in the living room and try to sing a lullaby to drown out the noise. 

"Pain, pain, go away,

Never come another day,

Little Justin wants to sleep

Pain, pain, go away."

My tears drip into his curly hair as I whisper-sing in a wobbly voice.

I'm not feeling so new-creaturish now. I thought that once I turned to God, my nightmare would turn into a fairytale. 

Apparently, it doesn't work that way. 

A part of me is starting to second-guess the encounter I had. Maybe it was just something I conjured up in my mind, some fantasy of bliss that I created to escape this hell hole. 

But the memory is branded in my heart like hot coals. 

I still remember the sheer frustration I felt that morning. My stepfather called me nasty names while we had breakfast. In his words, I was a nasty cook just like my stupid mother.