Too Late For Regret

The Story

She tried.

She tried.

She really tried.

Her life was simply crushed. It was ruined – in fact, shattered, just like her fragile heart.

She could no longer say another word.

Thirteen years she spent in a happy family with a doting father and a caring mother. The only child she was, she earned much love and care from her parents. They were poor – her father was an odd job worker and her mother was dishwasher at a nearby restaurant. They were not well educated, and neither was she. She had stopped school just three years back to save up on schooling fees and support the family. Nevertheless, she was satisfied with whatever she had.

“As long as my parents are with me, poor or rich doesn’t matter.”

It never crossed her mind that things would actually change for her.

Her mother ran away with some rich man she met at the restaurant she worked, and her father changed completely. He was no longer that tender loving father she loved, he changed.

She picked up a job at the restaurant her mother used to work. Restaurant, her mother called it, but it was no other than a bar. No, she wasn’t working as a dishwasher there. To earn extra tips for her job, she worked as a bargirl there. She was frequently molested and openly groped during her job which she sometimes worked for consecutive days. She bit her lips and pressed on despite the occasional humiliation she received.

After her job at the bar, she would return home to find her father tumbled on the floor, which numerous beer bottles surrounding him. Pills, which she presumed to be cocaine, were popped into his mouth with each mouthful of beer. One drink, one pill. Moreover, he would smoke with the windows closed, which he did not even bother to open. The house was all foggy with his continual smoking. It was tattered and dirty.

Every now and then, she would return to find the house empty and soon after her father would stumble through the door drunk. On one occasion, he was so drunk he actually raped her. The stench of smoke on her father’s mouth was unbearable, but what could she do? She was defenseless against her father’s strength.  Helpless she felt – where was her mother? Where did she go? Where was her mother when she needed her the most? She winced and wailed – no one could hear her. It was all dark. She was thankful she could not see her father’s face, if not she would feel twice as bad as she did. It was her father who was raping her – her father, the man whom she actually respected. The only source of light came from the cracks in the broken windows. Only a shadow she saw, a shadow that was ruthlessly tearing her clothes apart. Tears welled as she tried to scream for help. Her attempts were futile. Every night she knelt by her worn out mattress, praying that her mother might return to find her, to save her and to shower her with the love and care she used to receive. Day after day, her hopes seemed to get crashed down little by little.

This pulled her through the crime her father sought upon her. She thought it would be the one and only time it happened. But time proved her wrong. This seemed to be part of a weekly schedule now. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. She never reported it to the police. Even if so, what if he was ruled innocent in court? What if he couldn’t be convicted of rape? What could he be charged with? Incest? Moreover, he was her father. After all, they were blood related, how could she have the heart to send her own father to prison?

This kept up with her for three months since her mother’s disappearance. But now, it was finally over. She did not know if she should be happy or sad. She was finally rid of her father’s crime towards her but she was all alone. Her father’s death was a relief, to say. It was that moment when she stepped into the house after three consecutive days of work she found her father lying flat on the floor with his eyes wide open and bloodshot, and his mouth opened large, as if he was gasping for breath. Overdose. The word came to mind. Cocaine was what killed him.

Ever since her father’s death, she seemed to be haunted by nightmares every night. Each time she closed her eyes, she would recall the times when her father raped her. That dark room, she didn’t even dare to switch off the lights anymore. The smell of her father seemed to linger on. The smoke fused with the strong smell of beer, it harassed her with the presence of her father’s soul beside her.

Within a week, she quit her job and locked herself up at home. She hardly stepped out of the house, unless she had to buy food to stock up for the next few days. She avoided all the guys on the street and shrieked in fear even if they just brushed past her. The money she had saved up was running low.

Still traumatized and paranoid, she ran out of both food and money. She dared not go work. Given her education, who would hire her? Even if someone did, she would probably be wanted at some place like her previous. She had enough of it all.

She wobbled up the stairs and to the rooftop. She looked down. It wouldn’t be painful would it? Did these fifteen stories secure her a death penalty for herself?

She climbed on to the ledge and sat down, looking up at the sky. The sun was scorching as its rays shone and planted themselves on her skin. It was as if an angel was bestowed upon her from heaven. She squinted against the glaring sunlight.

She sat on the edge

With her legs dangling away

Enclosed, she felt, in a cage

Right in the mid of the day

A pen lifted

On paper the ink flows

She penned down how she was treated

Scrunching up her toes

She took a deep breath and gave the air a taste

“Goodbye world,” she said

She leapt off fifteen stories with great haste

And now she lies on her coffin bed

Thirteen years of her life flashbacked in her mind within seconds of her last moments. No, she couldn’t give up on herself like that. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to continue living even if her parents had left.

It was too late.

She might have been humiliated, molested and raped, but she couldn’t ruin her own life because others attempted to ruin hers. She could have pressed on. She could have lived for the better. She could have saved herself. She didn’t. ‘Could’ was no longer a word present in her life, or to say, her death. It was too late for regret.

So to speak, she should never have regretted jumping off that building. Why? Because at one point in time, leaping to her death was what she really wanted to do.

Pushed herself to her death, she regretted resorting to such a solution. She could have actually found her mother one day. She could have actually pulled through. She could have actually grown to be a capable woman, even without her parents by her side.

She could no longer say anything else. Her words were dead, just like how she was.

Regret. What is regret? No one can tell, till it’s too late to make a change.