OUR MOTHER Was Not His PUNCHING-BAG

They tell me the panel has agreed to my parole so today I leave these metal bars and stone walls behind. They said my release was granted because I have reformed and shown remorse. But I believe that's just politics talk. I believe they are offering me back my freedom because they know in their hearts & minds if they were in my position they would have made the same choice. I must admit I never thought I did anything that was worthy of me spending time in jail. Turns out they thought I did enough to spend a great deal of time here, nine years to be exact. Odd thing is I don't remember much of the last nine years here but I do remember that today I turn twenty-one. My birthdays have become bitter sweet for me. I don't forget them but I don't celebrate them either. Instead I relive memories. I won't be attending a party when I am released. I will be going to visit my mother. My mother. The last time I spoke to my mother was on my 12th birthday. Even though it was our last conversation, it means the most to me. I can never forget it because it was also on my 12th birthday that she died, defending me & my sisters...from the last person she should have had to protect us from...her husband, our father. I can still vividly recall the last words she spoke to me as we surrounded her bed trying to pour into her the strength she needed to leave that room. But she was too broken. Her body had lost the power to endure anymore. Her will to live had been taken from her. With tears in her eyes she whispered as she held my hands "I'm sorry baby...I couldn't...but you...protect your sisters. I love..." I watched as the life faded from her beautiful face. My grandparents cradled us away from her bedside, trying to be strong for us but their sobs were louder than ours. I left her hospital room emotionally shattered that night. The best part of my life had just died in front of me. It hurt me to my soul so much that I couldn't even produce tears to shed at her funeral as I held my sisters hands. As we watched our angel lowered into the ground I felt cold because I felt responsible for her death. I could have done something to protect her but I didn't. I vowed from that moment that I would never sit idly by...I would always do something.

 I remember the months after her funeral being back home, trying to continue living without our mother. I remember doing my math homework when my father came into the room yelling at my youngest sister for forgetting to put the milk back into the fridge. He immediately snatched her up by her fragile arms as she screamed in sheer terror. He slapped her tiny face calling her a stupid little bitch. My sister screams she is sorry but he doesn't stop yelling or hitting her. It was strange to see her in the exact position I saw my mother in so many times before her death. The scene made me immune, almost expectant of my dad's violent temper. I had witnessed numerous moments of my mother being pinned up against a wall or cowering in a corner taking my father's brutal punches and kicks. She would scream for me to take my sisters & leave the room. Even though I wanted to stand up to him for her I didn't. I always did what my mother said. But now as I hear my baby sister crying over the loud smacks she is receiving I wait to hear my mother yell "RUN! GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!" But her voice never comes. I realize it is gone because she is gone. As my other sister cries into my chest fearful for what our father may do to her next. I suddenly have a flash of my 12th birthday. We are in the kitchen huddled over my cake that my mother and sisters baked and decorated. And as they are singing happy birthday to me my father walks in. He quietly stands at the door and listens. He and I make eye contact and for one of the few times I remember, he smiles and winks at me. We all sit down and share the cake, laughing and enjoying a rare moment together as a family. I remember my mother kissing me goodnight telling me she loved me and how proud she was to be my mother. I tell her that she is strong and beautiful and that I will always love her. That should have been best way to end one of the happiest days of my young life but it quickly became the saddest. I remember it was the cries of my sisters that woke me first followed by the all too familiar sounds of my mother crying and my father yelling. It was the neighbors who heard the shouting and called the police. Their banging on the front door is what actually gave my mother the time to die in a warm hospital bed surrounded by those that loved her instead of on a cold floor towered over by the one that beat her mercilessly. It bothered my grandparents that the courts took so long to decide custody. They tried to reveal my father as the monster he was but since my mother never reported her beatings at his hands my father was never on file as abusive. So the judge took his word that my mother's death was as an accident. A heated argument that ended with her being pushed and hitting her head on the corner of the table losing consciousness. He served a couple of weeks in jail but we knew he wouldn't stay long because her bruises had already healed before that night so there was nothing to credit him as a chronic abuser. I remember my mom waking up in the hospital and my grandparents rushing us into her room so we could see her. The last view we had of our mother was her weak body plugged up to monitors fighting for her survival not the courageous woman that did her best to shield her kids from their father's rage. It was her last words to me that now echoed in my mind over my sisters' frantic screams..."protect your sisters".

 It was her words that finally prompted me to go against my normal reaction to run, hide and wait out my father's fury. It was in that moment it would have been wise for my father to be the one to run, hide and wait out my fury. But he didn't run. He didn't have a reason to hide. He never knew he had passed his fury onto me. It was almost poetic that my mother had finally defended herself and struck back at him. She did it from the grave using her young son whom she always told to  run and hide. It was her words that would guarantee that there would be no running or hiding on this night. I stood up, ready to confront the beast that had murdered our mother. As my mind contemplated what I would do next my young hands found what I would use to end his warpath. With his back to me still focusing on assaulting his youngest daughter he never saw me step toward him. I swung the bat as hard and fast as my young body could. I remember the metal making a sickening thud as it connected with the flesh and bone of his head. His shouting was finally silenced. His punches and kicks would never have another body to bloody and bruise. His body dropped without resistance. Immediately he began convulsing on the floor curling into the same fetal position that my mother had been in numerous times before. As I watched him seize I decided I would grant him the same amount of mercy he gave to our mother...no mercy at all. His eyes slowly rose to meet mine. The last time we made eye contact my mother would die at his hands. This time it would be my hands that would deliver death...his.  I kept eye contact long enough for him to realize that it was me who had finally become HIS abuser. And as he had done to me that night I smiled and winked. I then smashed the bat down into his face breaking his gaze. I swung with the same ferocity that he beat my mother and sister with. I swung until my shoulders ached and my palms were throbbing. I swung until his face was nothing but a mound of unrecognizable flesh and bone. It was the quiet whimpering and pleas from my sisters that stopped the swings. I remember hearing the sound of metal splashing into an expanding pool of crimson. I remember turning away from his lifeless body to hug my sisters. I remember holding them tightly to my small chest shielding their eyes. I remember taking them into the living room and watching them until they fell asleep. I remember calling my grandfather telling him that we were finally safe. I remember seeing the faces of my grandmother and baby sisters through the windows of the cop car. There are many things I have forgotten but many more that I can't forget. The days I have spent at this place are a blur because I have cared not to remember them, but I will remember this day. Because I am finally leaving prison and will get to visit my mother. I will finally shed year old tears. I get the moment to tell her I didn't run, that I didn't hide. I get to tell her her daughters are doing good now. I get to tell her that her sacrifice was not in vain. I will tell her that I remembered and honored her last words. I protected my sisters. I know she will not be proud that I have spent so many years in this place but unfortunately that's the way life happened. I will tell her despite the years I have lost I have no regrets for my actions because I taught my father that our mother was not his punching-bag and I'm alright with that.


Be Safe. Be Blessed
TWIL