It’s hard to describe the sound of ripping flesh. Even more difficult is the sound the flesh makes when a lion makes first bite. You wouldn't think your sense of hearing would be paramount when you're being attacked but I guess that is just one of the ways the body separates itself from the pain. I never expected to survive but I did and the experience has left a huge dark painful mark in my heart.
No one expected such a thing. No one could even think that such a calm, gentle and kind-hearted person can become like that. But it was true; my mother was mistreating, tormenting and torturing me. She wasn’t in her senses; it was as if she had become mentally depressed. I couldn't even speak out to anybody. It hurt me a lot inside. I was too scared and traumatised to let anyone know that my mother was committing a crime. She was breaking the law of the lands. She was victimising me to the severest torture. She was going well over the limits of GBH-grievous bodily harm. Bruises and marks were becoming apparent on my body. I couldn’t take it. How long was this torture going to resume for? How much longer would I go through this stage of life which was turning out to be like hell for ME... The most curious question at this point is how did this abnormal state of my mother start?
It all started on the 2nd of January twenty eleven.My mother awoke unusually shouting above the limits and forcing me to do things out of my reach.It was apparent on her face there was something wrong.I realised because I saw her everyday and I could just tell there was a problem.Firstly it was blatently clear through the lipstick spots on her cheeks and secoodly through the black topliner on her nose.That day the fear inside me built up second by second.
Ever since I was a young girl, I would question my mother why I always came last in running races. I would often query as to the reason behind my crooked teeth. I would wonder how I could always forget my times tables, despite the fact that I would practice them every night. My mother would simply look down at me and answer, “Well, darling, nobody is perfect.” At the time, this made perfect sense to me. You see, my friend Ariana always came first in races, however, seemed to struggle with simple addition. My friend Rachel had amazing blonde hair and perfect, white teeth, but could never run fast enough to gain a place of importance. Time passed, and I grew older. My thoughts changed dramatically as my mind matured from child to teenager, but the one thought that remained the same was that of my mothers. I always figured that she was right- absolute perfection was impossible. That is, of course, until this day.
My dad was an electric engineer. My mom taught fourth grade. They were an easygoing pair. They laughed a lot. I rarely saw either of them get upset. They were content with our life. Not ambitious. Just content. My brother and I didn't give them a hard time growing up. To us, they seemed like typical grownups, typical parents, but also, in a lot of ways, to be ignored as we got on with our lives and with our friends. I guess you could say we loved and trusted our parents, but mostly we took them for granted.
This all changed the morning after a nuclear gadjet destroyed the device my father was currently working on which left him dead.The chain reaction, only took a couple of minutes in the evening to end life as we knew it. I learned later that a sort of paralysis set in among most of the survivors around the world, paralysis and a fanatical craving for news, more news, the latest news about... well, about the situation my father was in.
That paralysis never affected our mum, only our dad. She didn't seem to want or need to hear any more about the explosion. When my brother and I woke up that first morning, she sat us down and explained to us what had happened and what we were going to do about it. No anger, just tears. She was matter-of-fact.
