Domestic Violence (Essay)

So I grabbed my little brother and held him tight. I was trying to block him from seeing the fight between his dad and our mom, I was stuck between getting in the middle of the fight to protect my mom, or get my one year old brother out of his crib so he wouldn’t see the violence. Yet, my brother seemed so defenseless and innocent. I didn’t want his innocence to go away,( mine already had) so I held him tighter. My 9 year old self was protecting a baby from what I shouldn’t be seeing either. But it was time to become the women of the house and the mom at the same time. My mom wasn’t able to be a mom, when someone was amputating her finger off, or be a wife to a monster, so subliminally, I was the mother and the extra victim at the same time. As they screamed and cussed, I just thought of the baby in my arms. Unexpectedly, I lost concentration when my mom screamed hysterically “My finger, my finger! My finger! Mamita, it’s in the floor, please, find it. Please! He yanked it off of me, and its in the floor… It bounced to the floor!” She yelled hysterically. I couldn’t register what she was saying, how can her finger be in the floor? Then I saw blood in the walls. I totally forgot about my little brother for those couple of seconds. I had to abandon the thought of protecting his childhood memories from bad ones, to care for my mom (see, just the fact that my mother came to this country on her own, no one helped her, was enough for me to grow ahead of my years, and take care of her as if I was her mom, since hers was gone). I left him in the crib, with a toy, and started my search for my mother’s finger. I was looking for something my brain couldn’t yet register. My mom’s hand was bleeding, but I didn’t have the guts to look at it. My stepfather left as soon as we started our search. His mouth was left with blood on the side like that of a vampire’s or a dog after an attack. I was petrified, traumatized. It was as if my life was passing by in a flashback and I was going to wake up any minute now from this nightmare. But waking up never happened. How can he do this to the love of my life, to my beautiful queen? Even writing this now makes me quiver. He hurt the person I loved the most. He stole my mother’s happiness, my childhood, and even though I tried to prevent it, he stole my brother’s childhood too. I was no longer 9 years old. I knew something most girls my age didn’t, happy families aren’t for everyone, and domestic violence was no longer part of a story I read in the news paper, it was my life now.
My mother was in the hospital for a while and I stayed home with my step father’s father. All I ate for a whole day was cookies. I didn’t have an appetite, especially when my mother’s finger had been ripped off from a man’s mouth. When my mother came back home, she described how painful it was to have her finger sowed. She didn’t realize how young I was and how I didn’t really want to hear how much she had been in pain. At this moment, in her eyes, I was her best friend, in mine; she was my injured mother, who needed a care from a mother as well. Since that day on, I was her little soldier and she was the warrior of a constant battle, from which I hid my pain from, so she had room to heal hers before mine can start.
I never looked at my stepfather the same way. I never got close to called him Dad either. I started questioning the statement “Love thy enemies,” how is that possible? How can I forgive such a thing? For years I was angry at him. I learned too soon some men were not the princes from Cinderella’s and little mermaid’s stories. Where was our family’s happily ever after? Can men abuse women like that? My head was filled with unanswered questions, but I didn’t want to ask my mother anything, I was her little soldier, I didn’t feel pain at all, I couldn’t feel pain, not yet. For a long time I built a wall from feelings and people, to deal with my broken home and my broken family. He continued to manipulate her, and I always stayed frozen and quiet. I was one of those kids who didn’t speak much in the classroom, and sat there, and observed. Yet I had so much to say. Teachers questioned my silence, but none ever knew. I was trying to be mama’s little soldiers, strong and firm. I never spoke a word, it was as if I was used to the pain, as if it was normal, that’s was everything I knew.
A few years passed, and my mom was trying to continue her life as a single mother. It felt good not to have violence in our home anymore. My brothers were smiling and talking more. My mother looked healthier and I was stronger. My mom went to court and eventually was able to restart with her four children. She became mother and father for us, which was good enough for me. But one day, after everything was in control again and we were about to go to the park, (like we always did to dedicate time for my brothers) I opened the door of the apartment, and my stepfather was hiding next door. He yanked my hand out of the door knob. I quickly became the 9 year old girl again frozen in action. I tried to entertain my brothers. Now, I was old enough to defend her. So when, he started to approach her, I put my hand in front. He was surprised, but so was I. I can feel my mother’s admiration for my bravery piercing my back through her eyes. It was her and me all along. I was her soldier, and still am. He then understood my position and that I was older now, and I was no longer afraid. Even after everything, I had forgiven him because I learned that he was just a scared little boy inside a grown man’s body for all this time. He had no sense of moral virtue to what was right or wrong. Most importantly, I was proud when I finally defended my mother. We were closer than ever. We were inseparable.

By Denisse Cotto AKA Poet Nissy