My step-father used to beat my mum. She would scream in pain, she would shed tears of pain. Her nibbling lips, sored face giving her 150 shades of sadness. She would sleep in the lonely room, hair wet, eyes red. An empty heart longing aimlessly for unconditional love. Where is my own mother? Her brain would cry. She had lived twenty long years with my step-father, taking in the agony and misery of an old slave. I have seen her every day on the floor shedding tears before the night draws in. My step-father would do nothing. He used to be a good man and they used to be in love I think. As their marriage went on, he became unhappy, insolent and sulky. I have seen him transform before me and I think it is strange that my only little brother grew up never seeing the old good in him.
Today, he screamed at her, hurting her good old heart. The violent energy in his bones enough into terrifying her. Her breath flows like the soft wind and her hands and bones are rough, the price of physical labour. Her beauty would have streamed a thousand miles, has she not been abused.
