By Othniel D. Forte
Prologue: Tap, Tap, Tap. 3, 2, 1, Tap, Tap, Tap. Blood dropped from the rustic machete.
He lay spread over the couch. One hand still clutching the bottle; the other, swollen, slung over his bare chest. “Grrr. Grrr” he snored loudly. He was out cold and would remain for the next few hours.
Over in the kitchen, under the sink, she snuggled, also asleep with her black eye, bruised nose and bloodstained lips. I tiptoed across the room to collect my siblings- Blojay, four and Youjay six. Both are sobbing in a corner by the window. Days like these, everyone gets flogged- a few slaps or lashes before sending them off. Today was relatively good.
They hid when they sensed my approach and only came out upon seeing me. I checked Youjay’s face; half of it is red, but no swelling. I clean it. My brother wasn’t that lucky, his upper ribs were swollen. He flinched when I applied the damp, warm cloth to it. I felt his pain with each stroke I made no matter how gentle but I must attend it. I know his pain all too well.
I am almost nineteen but I had a few broken fingers, ribs, dislocated shoulders, a missing tooth and that is just in two years. They pass my accidents off to my being tomboyish. Mostly, it is my wrist, which is my first line of defense. Today, I feel the sprain, perhaps a torn tendon, but who cares? In about twenty minutes, I would be unable to move it around so I have to hurry.
We must hurry to find food. Our window is fast closing. I hurriedly get them ready before I enter my parents’ room next door. This is where they start and end their battles. Clothes, papers and bottles were all over the place like landmines. I rummaged through the messy room for cash; searching as many pockets and under anything I could lift. The kids are on lookout in the hallway.
We live in an old house; there are holes in the roof, the walls, everywhere. This means the slightest sound travels everywhere. We quietly went out the back door. I found less money than I expected but that would have to do. We bought food for one person. I fed them after taking only a few spoons. We hurried back home just in time to find Mama waking. She barely recognized us as she struggles to get to her room only to fall on a pile of clothes, knocked out.
I tucked them in and had just turn around when he entered the room. He had his menacing stare. He stumbled over to me. His breath reeks. I am frozen. Even if I could, I know better than to move. Moreover, I didn’t have it in me today to fight, not in this state. I just stood there.
Large hands dragged me on the cold floor. He swears a lot at these times; each day, nastier words. I hold my breath in angst; waiting for it. The alcohol-disgusting odor suffocates me. Just when I can take it no more, there it comes; I puke. He doesn’t notice.
“Breathe,” I tell myself! I try to inhale but I choke.
Suddenly, he falls over me. His full weight knocks the air out of my stomach. I exhaled and muffled my scream. He goes limb/numb; deadweight. I shifted, struggled finally and I pulled free. I’m too weak to roll away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bloodied machete. I gathered my strength and lifted my head to see beyond the blade. My sibling’s tiny frame holding it shocked me.
Epilogue: Tip, tip, tip…. Blood dropped to the floor. The face etched in my mind was unbelievably calm, resolved. I blocked out!
