Page 2 of Finding Us
He threw her to the ground before kicking her in the stomach. She instinctively put her hands up to protect her face. It was the only thing she could do. His next kick was a vicious one to her leg before he threw the scissors down beside her.
“Cut the grass by hand, you dumb, fucking whore,” he yelled. He struck again with his boot, and mum yelped, screwing up her face. She’d been hurt, bad.
He stood, hands on hips, legs spread apart. He was intimidating her. She folded herself into a ball on the ground because his intimidation always worked. He’s a bully and knows we’re both petrified of him. The sick, perverse monster that he is seems to revel in the fact he can terrify us both. I can always tell by the sadistic smile plastered on his evil face as he hurts her.
Mum unfolded herself and with shaky hands reached for the scissors. They shook so much she couldn’t grasp them, so he stomped on her hand. I gasped as a tortured cry of pain escaped her lips. With tears flowing freely down my cheeks, I watched on, and I felt immediate relief when she finally managed to pick them up.
I hate him so much!
My mum wiped away the blood from her nose with the back of her hand, pulled herself onto her knees, and began cutting the grass by hand. Blade by blade. It was going to take her forever. He stood there, a cruel smile curling his lips, before turning around and heading back towards the house. I dashed to my room and locked the door before he made it back inside.
I desperately wanted to go outside and help her but I knew she wouldn’t want that. It would have sparked his anger, seeing me help. She’s often told me she can take the beatings as long as he leaves me alone. Sometimes though, I wish my father would hit me instead, just so she could have a break from it.
I lay awake in bed for hours, listening and waiting for her to come inside. I finally heard that familiar click, and my mum’s footsteps padding down the hall towards her bedroom. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was almost two in the morning. My poor mum had been cutting the grass, with scissors, for nearly eight hours.
“I love you, Mummy,” I whispered into the dark. I knew she couldn’t hear me, but I felt compelled to say it. I needed her to know that someone loved her, that somebody cared.
What happened last night must be why Mum’s receiving another beating now. My father’s obviously unhappy with the way she cut the grass. He’ll justify his behaviour in any way he can. She’d been forced to use scissors and it had been dark outside. How can you possibly cut the lawn perfectly with a pair of scissors in the damn dark?
In his mind, there is always an excuse for his psychotic behaviour. “My dinner is too hot.”Whack.“My dinner is not hot enough.”Whack.“What did you put in the gravy? It tastes like shit.”Whack.“Did you buy a different washing powder? My shirt smells like fucking flowers.”Whack.“I had a bad day at work, and it’s all your fault.”Whack.I could go on forever.
No matter what she does, he always finds something to complain about. She tries so hard to ensure everything’s perfect, to keep him happy. It’s a waste of time; nothing she does is ever good enough in his eyes.
I rock back and forth in my bedroom. Things are smashing as my father screams at her. The only sounds from mum are cries of pain. This beating is bad; they don’t usually last this long. The sound of things shattering filters into my room. That monster must be throwing her around the house.
I can’t bear it any longer. I turn my head and glance at my wardrobe. It’s where I hid my phone, the one Brooke, my dance teacher, gave me to use in case of an emergency. Standing, I open the double doors and stare up at the shelf, but I can’t reach it without a chair.
Suddenly everything goes quiet. I listen harder, but there’s nothing but silence. I tiptoe towards my bedroom door and place my ear against the wood. When I hear the front door slam, relief floods through my body.
Finally, it’s over.I begin to relax.
He always slams the front door as he leaves the house. He’s usually gone for a few hours, but unfortunately, he always returns, reeking of alcohol and full of remorse that never lasts long. I asked my mum once where he went after he hit her. She thinks he goes to the pub to have a few drinks and calm down.
I wish he’d drink so much that it killed him.
I wait quietly. Mum will come and get me any minute. But as time passes, I grow anxious again. Every part of me desperately wants to go to her, but she’s told me over and over,never leave until I come for you. She will only retrieve me once it’s safe.
I’m pacing back and forth by the door and when the minutes tick by and she still doesn’t come, my mind starts to race. All sorts of images flash through my imagination. What if she can’t come to me? Maybethis timemy father killed her. Without thinking, I unlock the door and fling it open.
“Mummy,” I’m so scared, my voice comes out like a whisper.
My hands shake as I step into the hallway and freeze for a few seconds, listening intently, but there is still no sound. Panic sets in as I run down the hall, rounding the corner that leads to the front room. The destruction I see has me stopping in my tracks. It’s completely trashed and my heart drops when I see blood smears on the wall.
“Mum,” I scream. Turning, I start running back down the hallway. “Mummy, where are you?”
As soon as I enter the kitchen, I see her crumpled on the floor.She’s not moving.Blood flows down her face and into her beautiful blonde hair. I can hear the erratic beating of my heart in my ears as I step tentatively towards her. My body is trembling with fear.
“Mummy,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her.Nothing.Why isn’t she moving? Why won’t she answer? Tears burn my eyes.
Blood flows from her nose and mouth. Her beautiful face is already swollen and the bruises are starting to show. I shake her softly.
“Mummy, wake up,” I cry as I hesitantly reach out and place my hand on her arm. I’m desperate to know she isn’t dead. “Please wake up,” I beg as I lightly shake her. “Please, Mummy, don’t leave me here by myself, I need you.” I’m crying hysterically now. “Please open your eyes.”
Jumping to my feet, I grab one of the kitchen chairs and drag it towards my bedroom. I have to get my phone and call Brooke; I don’t know what else to do, but I need to do something.
I hear a male’s voice calling my name, but it sounds far away. When a hand grasps my arm, panic sets in, and I begin thrashing my body around.
“Jaz … Jaz, wake up. You’re having another nightmare.”
