As a
child, I was terrified. Terrified that I would displease Father somehow and be
punished for it. He wouldn’t
yell or scream or take out his belt to flay my tender skin.
My father had a
special punishment for me.
He would
go deathly quiet and sit at his table. He would ask me go and stand by the
chair and ask me to hold out my hand. He would put his legs around mine and
lock his feet behind my knees to prevent me from running away.
This went
on for years.
Then he
would take out the 7 o’ clock blade from under his stationary box and start running
its edge on the side of my palm. One long slice, not enough to cause any
serious damage but enough to drain a few fat drops of blood and leave a lasting
mark. By the second slice, I would be hyperventilating, choking on my own tears
and begging his mercy for eating that extra slice of bread from the fridge.
This went
on for years.
And every
time I would cry out for my mother amidst the pain that scarred my very soul.
If only she were around. I never told anyone for fear that he will give me up –
somehow I chose this over a life of being an orphan but my recurring scars had their own
tale to tell.
This went
on for years.
In the eyes of the world, we were the quiet, grieving widower and distraught son but in the security of the home we shared brought out the monster and the victim. I never
had any friends, never made any for fear that my secret would be exposed and I
would be ridiculed at – so I was always that weird child in the corner who
nobody liked, not even the teachers.
This went
on for years.
Till the
day they found him dead in his bed, his body covered with deep cuts, his neck
hacked at repeatedly and his wrists almost severed off. An empty pack was on the stool beside and bloody seven o’clock
blades strewn all over the floor.
