“For better or worse”

First off, I want to apologise for being off this space for a long time- a month and two days. Note that it wasn’t voluntary, sometime Life just happens. Forgive me, it’ll never happen again. I hope…..

Anyways, I wrote my first short story last week. Not my first though, my first official short story so here it is…

Let me know what you think in the comments section, should I go on with writing short stories or should I just forget it and accept it’s not my calling. Don’t judge too harshly 🙂

 

 

 

         Nothing can compare to the pain etched in your child’s eyes as he scrutinizes the bruises that mar your face courtesy of his father. The mountain of tears threatening to fall are to powerful to hold back but I do it anyway. His small hands squeeze the insides of my palm and his innocent eyes look at me worriedly, worry that shouldn’t be present on a four-year-old’s face.

          I try to look brave and conjure a smile.

“Mummy….who beat you?”

“I fell down..” the lie rolls off my tongue easily, it’s not the first time I’ve had to tell it. I can see the disbelief flash in his eyes before he leaves the room. If I had known where he was going or what he was about to do, I’d have stopped him. If I had known he was on his way to his father to ask, “why did you beat my mummy?” I’d have strapped him on my back till he fell asleep.

       When any teenage girl dreams of a husband and marriage, they dream of two hearts so invested in each other, one doesn’t even think of hurting the other. They dream of seductive smiles accompanied by sensual touches. They dream of joy, laughter and happily ever afters. What a shame that ninety percent of all those dreams turn to dust once they enter the sacred marriage institution.

        What a shame that I didn’t see this side of him beforehand. What a shame that the first time his blow landed on my cheek I didn’t immediately gather my belongings and exit. They say every marriage has its imperfections, no one is perfect. I’m not asking for perfect, I just want normal. But the society’s definition of normal seems a far cry from mine. The society says a woman must endure, we were raised that way. If she checks out of the marriage, she is seen as wayward, a shame to her family and the society. The woman that stays and endures is the hero, she is strong. I wanted a marriage, I didn’t ask for endurance. Or maybe I did. He used to be a cultist, he confessed it on a drunken night. He had a history of violence.

“Why?” I had inquired, my heart rate increasing with each passing second.

“I had nothing. No looks, intelligence or money. I needed to have something and they offered me one- power.”

But that was in the past, isn’t it said that love conquers all?

So I married him. I couldn’t complain, I had it better than some women. He might hit me from time to time but at least we were well to do, we lacked nothing and he was loyal. Some women go through worse, I said that to console myself.

I didn’t have it all bad, there were good times, lots of good times. I live for those times, when the smile that envelopes his face is a sure sign that things are going to be good for a few weeks.

A tiny part of me was a bit relieved when he was detained in KiriKiri for eight months and I felt guilty for thinking that way every single day. He and his stepbrother had some kind of misunderstanding over a piece of property and his stepbrother, being the more powerful and influential of them decided to lock him up. I was left to fend for myself and two kids. I worked all and every job I could find. My stepmother was my saving grace in those trying times. She invested herself financially, physically and spiritually for which I’m eternally grateful.

I won’t lie, I missed my husband a lot. I missed a warm body to lie next to at night. I missed not having to work multiple jobs just to survive. I hated my boys asking frequently, “where is Daddy?” and having to lie to them each time. I hated having to drop my kids off somewhere while I looked for ways to earn some extra cash.

His stepbrother approached me. He asked me to offer my body in exchange for my husband’s freedom. It was the toughest decision I’d had to make in my entire life but I couldn’t do it. My husband would find out surely and he’d deal with me accordingly. So I refused. Each time I did, my husband’s jail term stretched further.

I became a Christian in those times, finding God in the darkest hour and he didn’t disappoint. My husband was finally released, I was grateful. Everything was going well again till my stepmother came to visit. He became mad, for whatever reason I couldn’t comprehend. He warned me to never see her again. This was a woman that had been there for me during the hardest times, how could I desert her? I tried to make him see reason but he refused to listen. He accused me of sharing intricate matters of the family with outsiders. He forbade me from having any friends or companions.

What could I do but endure?

Now my kids are growing up, my first son almost seventeen. He’s beginning to see his father in a new light, something I never wanted to happen. He hits me lesser these days thankfully but his rage goes untamed, he resorts to emotional abuse. I hate my boys having to witness that so I made sure they attended boarding schools where they can be away from the harsh reality of us. I don’t know how much longer I can hide the mess that is ‘us’ but I’ll spend my whole life trying. Afterall, we vowed “For better or worse” on that fateful morning nineteen years ago and it’s a vow I intend to keep.