By Theresa Asiedu*
My phone rang.
”Theresa, I am so sorry.”
I heard my mother’s quivering voice.
I stared at myself in the mirror, the red marks around my neck slowly turning blue; my forehead was still bleeding.
I had lost everything within the last twenty-four hours by the same man who had been in my life since I was three; the man who had tormented my family for as long as I could I remember; the father of my two younger siblings and the reason my mother decided to move to the Caribbean from Germany many years ago.
That morning, all I wanted to do was take a jog. It was a morning too beautiful for such ugly things on Dominica — the Caribbean island so often mistaken for the Dominican Republic.
The sun was shining, the fresh mountain breeze was gently touching my skin and I still had the scent of pink blossoming hibiscus flowers in my nose.
My stepfather popped in and out of our lives trying to maintain control of our family. He would yell at everything, from the house that was never tidy enough to the food that didn’t suit his taste. I would find myself holding my breath when he spoke, my body tensing with every word he uttered, his voice leaving goosebumps on my skin.
That day he had come by and ranted and raved as usual. My younger brother and sister were crying terrified by his behavior. ”I will kill all of you and line you up in graves,” he screamed. This man did not need a reason to ignite his rage. The smallest things would make him act like a mad man. Before I knew it I said,”Then kill me!”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, my heart pounded, in my chest and throughout my body. All my sense of sanity must have left me in that moment.
”Kill me, then,” I repeated. ”If that’s what it will take for you to leave this family alone!” I was only fifteen but I felt so strong.
His eyes red filled with rage, shocked at my audacity.
Before I knew it his, hands were around my neck choking me. I felt nauseous, stars appeared. He banged me against the metal gate. My forehead began bleeding profusely. He just left me there lying at the gate.
I managed to get up. I was disoriented, my clothes were torn. I walked down the graveled roads filled with pot holes without looking back, until I found someone who took me to the hospital. I later found out that my mother had run to the neighbor who was five minutes away to call the police after my stepfather had ripped our phone cords from the wall.They didn’t show up, something that wasn’t unusual for such a small island. It wasn’t until after I appeared battered at the station that they finally took action.
Before the police arrived that day to forcefully remove my stepfather, he had enough time to single me out and burn all of my belongings childhood photos, school books, all the clothes I owned. Unfortunately the Caribbean police tend to be slow and didn’t show up in time. He burned the things right next to our house with my mother watching too scared to do anything, an act of revenge to show me one last time what he was capable of. I was left with the torn shirt on my back, my sweats and a pair of sneakers.
He was gone, though.
*Theresa Asiedu, from the island of Dominica, is an international student at San Joaquin Delta College. She is currently finishing her degree in Business. Contact her at email@example.com.
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