By: Romio Rezoana
Romio Rezoana is a writer and poet who explores themes of love, resilience, and survival in both poetry and prose. In college, they led a writer's club that published a collaborative book for new emerging writers.
My mother clung to my small palm as if her life depended on it while staring up at my father, who was screaming furiously, shaking his clenched fists at her.
“You never do anything right!”
As my mother backed up shakily, she collided into the dining table, bringing me along with her in a fierce crash. I stared doe-eyed at my father, then back at my mother.
Why is daddy so mad at mommy? His screams became louder, and his movements more forceful, as he thrust his hand towards my mother’s throat. Terrified, I let go of my mother’s hand, running towards the bedroom. I pulled the covers over my head and wrapped my arms over my shaking legs, rocking myself back and forth. Tears streamed down my face, but I was too afraid to make a noise.
“Please stop!” my mother’s frail voice cried.
Slap!
The crack of skin against skin echoed through the walls. That was when I heard my mother call out for me.
I froze— my body still shielded under the blanket. I can’t breathe.
“Help me!” I heard her scream.
I cried harder, my body paralyzed at the corner of the bed. Her incessant cries for help cut through the breaking glass and clinking furniture. After what seemed several hours, the chaos in the other room subsided. It was humid beneath the blanket, and I breathed in hot air. I knew my mother entered the room when I felt the bed dip.
Whimpers racked her body. I peeked out of the covers and crawled over to her side, obediently. She looked down at me, a tear spilling from her eye.
“Why didn’t you do anything?” she said in her mother tongue.
I cast my eyes downward and shrugged. I had no answer for her. It was true. Why hadn’t I done anything?
I was distraught over the daunting question. I could have yelled for him to stop. I could have called someone for help. I could have stopped him. The last thought haunted me and I wondered if it was my fault. My father should have been the villain. Instead, Iwas becoming my own.
I could hear my father still yelling. He was crying along with his violent outbursts. That confused me. He never apologized. It was never his wrongdoing. He was the one inflicting the bruises that painted my mother's body, yet he cried. It made me wonder if it was because he was hurting too.
That was the day I felt true powerlessness. As a young child I didn’t know what that meant. I only knew fear controlled me when my body refused to move from its place. I was a bystander in my own home. I wanted more than anything to protect my
mother. But I was afraid, which meant I was useless. I was angry— not only with my father, but with myself the most.
Reflecting back on that day as a young adult, I realize how much was out of my control. The systemic, abusive struggle between my parents was not something I could have alleviated or fixed. And yet, to this day, I still seek the answer to a question I fully understand provides me with no refuge, no reward: was there anything I could’ve done?
