WE'D NEVER HEAL...
The scars would never leave, etched on our hearts. Mama’s voice, pleading. Papa screaming into her face. Each night, the belt would leave his trousers and caress Mama’s skin. We’d huddle in a corner, our breaths hitching, afraid to make a sound. We’d learned, from the day Dimma had tried to intervene. The welts gifted to her lectured us. Mama’s voice soon stopped. She took it, for days, without a sound. She should have known better. Papa liked her pleading. He dropped his beloved weapon and picked up the stool. I still hear the crack when it landed on Mama’s head. I kept hearing the crack when I picked up the fork on the table. The crack got louder when Papa looked at me, shock on his face as I rushed to him, my weight knocking him down. The crack became an anthem, in sync with the fork as I stab-stab-stabbed Papa. All the fear, the hate, the pain, flowing through those three prongs. I was still stabbing when Dimma dragged me away, the crack resonating in my head…
I’m forty now, Dimma is forty-two, and we’re broken, alone in many ways. We’d never heal, never stop hearing that crack…
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