Ah yes! Back to my damnation. Where was I last time… Oh yes, I mentioned dearest Mama as my second damnation. Well, I only put her second because I like to be seen as sensitive and humane, you know… Like she’s Mama, humanity demands I don’t abhor her. Or at least that’s what I see. So yes, she’s technically the whole list but stands at the second position.
See… My mama was an angel. She had the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen; the clearest hazel I’ve ever seen surrounded by an ocean of pure white. Her almond shaped eyes were rivalled by no one really. And her small round button nose made her round face look perfect. She wasn’t tall, no. She was petite. And delicate. And when she sang, I could feel all nature align in back up.
But that was the only beautiful thing about my mama. She said I was the abomination she had to put up with because my father didn’t know the entrance of his own house from that if the neighbours. Or that of the shopkeeper. Or that of the barber. I’m sure you get the point. But he’s inconsequential, at least for now. But then she’d hug me and say I was all she had.
With my mama, all I knew was hatred and distaste, malice and loath. I could taste the acrimony dripping from every syllable, every word, every sentence, every utterance. I could feel the malevolence from her very icy glare. And I knew not to test it’s extent. At least I learnt.
Mama couldn’t cook to save her own life and I learnt to make simple meals. With time, it was mutely established I’d be the one to cook. Countless number of times I’d had to shake her up from her drunken stupor and Lord knows what else to ensure she at least had a bite of something.
Don’t get me wrong. The relief from being needed numbed the pain of the blows, both physical and mental, emotional and psychological. I don’t know the exact difference. The relief silenced the loud bangs of loneliness and despair. Especially on nights when I saw three different men knock our door, a few grunts here and there, words rhyming with astute and go, then weeping, then complete silence. Well… Until the other shoe dropped and mother darling dragged me from bed to clean up the regurgitate and goo.
Other days, it was just Mama and I. Then she would go on long rants about my uselessness and inadequacy. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps I needed to do better. What child barely manages to get its mother’s attention and affection! What child surely?
But mornings were different. She would wake up with a smile, humming to the tunes in our old radio. She would tell me about her childhood… How she loves me. How she would change. Then she would send me to the shop to buy us some soda. I would arrive to a quiet house and a barely moving mother.
One particular night she came home with the man and said she’d gotten me a new daddy, perhaps then I’d behave better with him around. I saw him sneer then wink and knew I was done for. Knew hell had arrived. He knew just where to hit, it wouldn’t be visible but it would ache forever. He knew the words to say and they would hit my fragile ego and esteem to death. He knew what places to touch and I’d feel violated but without a voice. Everytime mama said it would do me good to accept teaching and correction.
That night he came home drunk and found Mama making her bland soup. He came straight to my makeshift bed and that night I was torn so bad I could never face a mirror. Walking was not within my reach. I gave in to the darkness against a backdrop of his sinister leer and cruel laughter. I woke up to find her cold form next to me, none of her glory hidden.
I still don’t face a mirror, I still can’t look up. But the worst is I can’t see past the pain and torture of each excruciating memory. I can’t find pleasure beyond the taste of red. When I bit him and hit him till I couldn’t anymore. When I realigned his face.
My mama was beautiful. But her beauty was dangerous. Her life, her love, all cracked and bruised. But she remained beautiful. Still she was dangerous. Schön gefährlich.
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