Stigma

[ˈstiɡmə]

NOUN

1.       a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person.

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Deeper, deeper, the wound just gets deeper

Like pieces of broken glass that I can't reverse

Deeper, it's just the heart that hurts every day

You who was punished in my stead

You who were only delicate and fragile

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I woke up to a scream. My eyes shot open and I nearly tumbled off the bed. Dashing for the door, I swung it open in a frantic haze. It sounded like my little sister, Camille. Adrenaline pumped through my entire body at the thought of my precious sister being in harm's way. Nearly tripping because of the speed I was going at, I reached the bottom of the stairs. Regret and fear flooded my mind when I saw what was going on: Camille on the ground, quivering, with blood dripping from a wound on her head, and our father standing above her taking in heavy gulps of air. He must've noticed my presence and turned to glare at me.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he snarled at me.

I flinched at the hateful tone he used, but I forced myself to keep my voice steady when answering him. "She's done nothing wrong, father," I said, still very intimidated. "You promised you'd keep her out of this."

His response included a furious look at me. "Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?!"

Rather than discouraging me from even looking at him like usual, this seemed to ignite something inside of me; a strange, courageous part of me that wasn't afraid of the cruel man standing before me. For once, I glared back at the source of all the physical and psychological abuse I received for years on end. It must've been the sheer fact that for the first time ever, Father laid his filthy, wretched hands on Camille. Delicate and fragile Camille, who never even came close to upsetting Father. And yet, there she was, tears pouring from her hazel eyes, jet black hair matted down with sweat and blood and afraid of the very father who raised her her entire life.

"Who do I think I am, huh?!" I angrily yelled at him. "I am her older brother and I will protect Camille at all costs! So now I ask, who do you think you are? Because you have no right to do this to us, especially not her! She's done nothing wron-"

A strong fist connected with my jaw, preventing me from saying anything else. The momentum from the blow made me stagger backwards and then fall. I glanced upwards and saw Father's figure looming over me, a crazed look in his eyes. Anticipating what was about to happen, I looked past Father and locked eyes with Camille. I tried to muster up a reassuring smile and mouthed two words at her.

Do it.

Her eyes widened and she must've gathered all her strength to run upstairs, a new wave of tears emerging. Seemingly not noticing, Father proceeded to beat me far worse than on any other occasion. What felt like forever must've actually been a few minutes, but it wouldn't have mattered how long it really was: every part of my body was begging for mercy from my assailant and just wanted it to end. Grabbing onto my hair, he yanked me forward and dragged me towards a wall. On it hung a picture of Camille and I, both smiling excitedly. I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the glass and cringed at the horrible sight. My face was badly bruised, my left eye was barely open, my nose was likely broken, and oozing blood and I had several bloody cuts on my lips.

Father leaned over my shoulder and whispered, "When I finish up with you, I'm going to make her wish she were dead, okay, Vance?" Not letting go of my hair, he slammed my face against the glass, making it shatter. Dark spots clouded my vision as I fell, bloody and broken. I faintly heard my father beginning to walk away, muttering to himself about being done with me.

Using everything I had left, I barely grabbed the back of his ankle, causing him to stop momentarily. "D-don't touch h-her..." I groaned quietly.

Father once again tugged on my hair, sneering at me while shoving my face harshly into the shards of glass which covered the floor. I was so exhausted to the point where I was numb but at the same time some part of my brain was screaming for Father to release my aching scalp form his vice-like grip and for me to run away from the sting of all the cuts on my face. On the brink of passing out, my ears picked up the distant sound of police car sirens. A ghost of a smile played on my swollen lips as I succumbed to my body's need for rest.

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Two weeks had passed by the time I woke up in a hospital bed. Camille ran into the room after the nurse called her in, asking me if I was okay in between sobs. Assuring her I was fine if she was, I held her hand gently. However, upon seeing the recently stitched-up scar on her right temple, I began to apologize profusely. For not being able to protect her, for not getting the authorities involved sooner. She shook her head, dismissing my worries, but I could tell my twelve-year-old sister had been through the hell I had endured for at least six and a half years, all in a single night.

"Listen, V," Camille said softly. "I understand that you're concerned about me, but please believe me when I say I'm okay. Dad hurt me physically, but you... you suffered for so long and kept it from me just to protect me. But that's over now, we're okay and Dad's gonna be locked up for a long time."

"... really?" I felt something akin to joy surface in my heart upon hearing the news. She nodded, a sparkle in her eye. I let out a huge sigh of relief and lied back down in the hospital bed. "About damn time."

Camille chuckled, picked up a remote from the bedside table and held it out for me to take. "T. V.?"

"Sure."

I took the remote and switched on the television. As if on cue, the reporter on-screen began talking about Father's case. "Welcome back, everyone. Once again, we bring you coverage about the horrible case of James Morris, a man who brutally beat his seventeen-year-old son, Vance, and wounded his twelve-year-old daughter, Camille. According to our sources, Vance Morris endured nearly seven years of abuse from his father in order to protect his sister," the reporter continued talking about the legal side of the story, rather than the gory details. Eventually, the woman brought out a consultant to discuss the subject. The man who joined her spoke rather conservatively right up until the end. "Is there anything else you'd like to comment about before we go to commercial?"

"Actually," the man said, sounding more confident. "I'd just like to say that if Mr. Morris is released from prison after this, his crimes will forever cause him to be branded by the stigma of having beaten his children. Society will be cruel and unforgiving towards him," he seemed to once again become shy and thanked the reporter for having him on the show.

For a moment, I turned away from the television to look at Camille, whose eyes were still glued to the screen. I smiled, relieved that we would finally be free from Father. For the first time ever, I fell asleep without having to fear for my safety, nor Camille's.