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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/894812-Abuse
Rated: 18+ · Essay · Crime/Gangster · #894812
An essay on Child Abuse, inspired by the song "Luka" by Suzanne Vega.
I gripped the bowl of popcorn in my hands as I stared into the television. The screen flashing colours of blood and blaring screams of agony. The disgusting pot-bellied man bent over a little girl with an iron rod in his hands. I watched the scene unfolding in front of my eyes, not daring to breathe or blink my eyes. The man whom the girl used to call “dad” brought the rod down over and over again, his face expressionless. Her screams were one of terror. I pulled up my pants and examine the hideous scars on my legs, and let my tears stream down my cheeks as memories of the past come flashing by..

“No, please No!” I screamed as hard as I could as I watched my father threw ornaments after pieces of ornaments all over the place. I crouched behind the couch, fear growing inside of me. “Get out here now, you wretched little girl!” He bellowed and stormed right over to where I was. With his big hands, he grabbed my small body and with no effort at all, he plunged my head down hard on the wall. I felt the pain rushing through my veins. A warm liquid running slowly down the sides of my head. He stood looming before me, casting shadows over me, breathing hard, “Its all your fault. Its all your fault!” I curled up tighter against the wall, not knowing what’s to come and fearing the worse. I wished he would leave me alone. I loved him. He was the best father in the world, but at that moment, I wished he would go away forever.

As if my wish was granted, he slowly turned around and walked off in the opposite direction. My breath was caught in my throat. “Father… where are you going?” I cried in a tiny voice. He continued striding towards the door. I felt my pulse racing and my mind was filled with questions and confusions. Should I stop him or let him go? Before I could even consider, he paused right beside the umbrella stand. I looked up at him, wondering what he was up to. My head felt as if it was cracking apart. My visions blurred a little but I could make out the shape of my father, moving stealthily back towards me. His face red with rage, his chest heaving and in his hand, held the fireplace poker.

My hands reached up to touch my head, and felt the blood in my palms. The pain, I cant stand. I wanted to cry and scream but somehow, I won’t allow myself to. My father once again caught me by my shirt collar. I plead with him to let me go. He looked at me with eyes I’m not familiar with anymore. The same wrinkles and the big pudgy nose was no longer loving. He gave an all-round intimidating aura. He scowled and let go of me as fast as he picked me up. I landed in a heap on the ground. From my grotesque position on the ground, I continued to beg him not to hurt me. “I do not need a child telling me what to do!” he yelled.

I let out a pitiful moan, the greatest mistake of my life. He growled in annoyance and started lashing at me with the poker from every direction. I screamed until my throat turned dry and I’ve practically crawled over the whole living room. The pain was too much to bear. Finally I just laid there, numb with emotions as he continued to whip me through and through.

The door shut with a bang and I heard him trudge down the staircase. I promised I wouldn’t let myself cry but I just have to. I placed as much effort as I could into getting up and kneeling was as far as I can go. I looked around the place, broken vases and dishes strewn around, furnitures lay in tattered mess. I gingerly picked up the broken pieces lying beside me. Why did he want to do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Where is the father I used to know?

A clap of thunder and a strike of lightning, the lights went out. The house turned eerily silent. I placed the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table, folded my arms across my chest and layed down on the sofa. After the incident, my father never showed up again. The scars on my back and legs would forever stay. The stitch marks on my forehead did nothing for my self-esteem. Each day I covered myself in drab clothings, feeling ugly and alone. I never trusted anyone and I don’t think I ever will. The closest relation I have betrayed me 30 years ago and the nightmare continued to haunt me all through the years.

Written by Grace Gwee.
Inspired by “Luka”-Suzanne Vega.
© Copyright 2004 grxgrace (grxgrace at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/894812-Abuse