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Through My Eyes - A Dying Hope by Patrice Guerrero











Through
My Eyes - A Dying Hope, Rekindled



It was night again. It was also the
one time of the day which I feared the most.

I cringed as I heard the wood and
glass front door burst open; the metal lock banging hard against the plaster
wall, creating a small indent. In my mind's eye I could see /him/.


The dark haired, green eyed man
which I feared as equally as the night; his eyes bloodshot from the types of
drugs he had cycled through tonight.

He stood at the door, nostrils
flaring and the smell of tobacco and alcohol lingering heavily on his clothing
and hair.

It was like this every night. My
mother had nearly died by his hands. She was so scared, afraid of the monster
that she had married. So that unfortunate night for me was the night she sold
me to the devil. She left us and ran off with some rich man who would help her
rebuild her life.

But what was I left with?

An abusive father. A father who was
the spawn of the devil himself.

I had heard many stories of abusive
parents. Mostly fathers who came home everyday, drunk until they are wasted,
who smoked so much that their lungs were probably made of tar and tobacco;
these cases were the worst.

But my own father surpassed even
the worst. Every night I would cry myself to sleep, mourning over what I have
lost.

Yes, I am at a loss. My mother left
me with an obnoxious excuse of a father, a father who came home every night,
drunk and extruding the thick air of alcohol; who came home to hurt me, abuse
me, violate me.

I let out a strangled sob as I
heard the door bang shut, its rusty hinges creaking eerily. Then there was the
same groaning of floorboards and stomping of his heavy feet as he made his way
up the staircase.

The same sounds I tried to block
out everyday when he arrived. But I expected it each night.

Was this to be a horror movie that
I /had/
watched everyday; over and over again? I denied it to myself day by day; that
this was all a nightmare that I wanted to wake up from.

But the pain that I felt night by
night was real. It was the same excruciating pain that I felt upon my bruised
and torn skin. However painful the blows I received were, my heart was damaged
beyond repair.

On the inside I had already died.
What point was there in living if my own father, my own flesh and blood, had
taken away everything from me?

From my education to my innocence,
he had taken it all away before I was even fourteen. I have been living like
this for many years now. Since the tender age of eleven; I now stand at the
cold age of seventeen with each night being unchanged.

Not many people feel what I feel,
no matter how common the prospect is brought up. I have no family, no saviour.

Heh...it doesn't matter if I try to
escape and live off the streets. He will find me despite how far I try to get
away from him. I'll never escape him. The only thing keeping me alive now was
the sweet, satisfying idea that someday I will have my revenge. Someday it will
be me who tortures the monster that brought me up like this.

"Janine...where are you Janine?" my
father called out, his voice raspy and his breath tainted with liquor.

I cowered with fear as I watched
the rusted, brass doorknob of my bedroom turn. Ever so slowly it turned.

And with the same speed, the door
gradually opened to reveal my father.

The smell today made me recoil towards
the windowsill. I lurched into a coughing fit when he stepped into my room,
taking a long drag from his smouldering
cigarette.

He moved closer and breathed out
into my face, the swirl of smoke entering my lungs, filling my throat and
watering my eyes.

"D-dad...p-p-please...not again. Please
dad! Have mercy! Plea-" I began.

However, I was cut short when the
sadistic, twisted grin on his face opened up into bellows of hollow laughter. A
cold, maniacal laughter; the type that chilled you to the bone, sending shivers
up your spine.

"Dear, dear Janine. You look like
your mother, did you know that? That sick-"

As he continued to utter
profanities from his mouth, I did what I had practiced myself to do. I shut out
his ragged voice and rocked back and forth on the floor, shaking.

'Happy place. I'm in heaven. I'm
not here but in heaven...' my conscience assured me.

But it was a bandage solution as I
felt the sharp, stinging pain upon my reddened cheeks.

"WAKE UP!" he screamed, his tanned
skin sinking into his gaunt but brawny figure. His dark eyebrows knitted
together in the face I had, to my misfortune, seen every night when he came
home.

I forced myself to look up into his
eyes, his frame swaying side to side in a dizzy, entranced way; his diluted
eyes were focusing and defocusing.

The sardonic smirk that played upon
his thin lips turned into a heavy scowl that suited his face.

"Janine. I'll give you three
minutes to hide-"

I flinched, knowing full well the
intentions of his sick game. He licked his dry lips before continuing.

"Then I'll find you. You can hide
anywhere in this house. But if I find you...then we get to have fun," he cackled
malevolently, gripping my right arm in his vice-like grip and thrusting me into
the door.

My head came in contact with the
wooden door and I let out a cry of pain.

"Whoops. Sorry," he laughed, not
sounding sorry at all. This time he opened the door and pushed me into the
hallway. I collided with the floor as he turned around and began to count
quickly.

"One, two, three, four; you better
hide coz I want more. Five, six, seven, eight; I'll slice your throat if you're
not great," he commenced.

I shuddered and began to run. First
stop, the kitchen. I had to do it tonight. If not tonight, I'll never have this
chance again.

I glanced at my most useful options.
The knife? Or the frying pan?

I sighed as I took the frying pan
instead. If I killed him, I would be charged with murder and manslaughter.

I took a deep breathe and crept
down the hallway to the front door.

"Uh-uh-uh. You can't leave the
house, Janine," came the icy voice of a man behind me.

I froze in my place as my father grasped
my arm and forced me against the door.

"Please dad..." I whimpered, my grip
on the pan loosened and it fell to the carpeted floor with a dull clunk.

"I said you can't leave," he
murmured, pulling out a pocketknife. "Now I'll have to punish you for your
disobedience."

Tears welled in my eyes and
streamed down my cheeks as I felt the cool blade press into the skin of my
wrist.

"Please. I beg you dad-"

"SHUT UP YOU LITTLE WORM!" he
shrieked, pulling me down onto the floor and straddling my legs.

I bit back my tongue, tears still
wavered my eyesight as struggling breaths left my drying lips.

My fingers barely reached the
handle of the frying pan, which lay unnoticed to my father, whose face showed
not even the slightest sign of mercy.

I prayed that I may live in peace
after this, that he wouldn't come after me to haunt me.

And so I stretched as far as I
possibly could in this position, grasped the handle and brought it up to meet
the back of my father's thick skull.

I heard the satisfying crack of the
stainless steel meeting the bone of his cranium; his body thudding horribly to
the floor.

I took in hurried, shallow breaths,
trying my best to compose myself. It nearly happened again. Just like every
night.

But today was different. I would be
in control. The taste of revenge was bitter sweet. I didn't plan anything after
this, so I was left with no choice but to run away. The sweet taste of revenge,
something I thirsted for so long...I was drunk on it.

I felt my father's pulse on his
wrist and then his neck. It was a faint, palpitating pattern but it was still
there. I had to hurry but this time, if he came after me again, I'd go straight
for the door.

Packing my bags, shivering with
both thrill and fright, I dialed the number for the Child Protection Agency to
pick me up. I wanted my mother desperately. I'd forgive her any day if it meant
that I could get away from this hellhole.

I admired her in a way; for putting
up with my abusive father. In a different way, I loathed her for giving up on
me by running away.

There was a small flicker of hope
in my heart when a dark, blue car arrived in the driveway.

I filled them in on all my details
and they took me to the police station to clarify myself and to get tests to prove
that I was really who I am.

Then there was the painful process
of explaining to them exactly /why/ I needed this protection. The
memories of my aching heart flooded my mind as I wept in the station, not
knowing how exactly I'd live after this day.

"It was a deep trauma. But
eventually, over time, you'll move on and forget this. You'll start off a new
woman with a new life. If you need anything, don't be afraid to contact us
again," the physiologist reassured me for the third time that day.

I nodded; my eyes wide as the
memories burned clear into my mind.

As the years passed, I have now
grown into a young woman, forgetting my past life as an abused daughter.

Meeting my mother was a
disappointment and I had to look for a job to support myself. But I told myself
over that I was a strong girl so in the end, I managed to pull through.

My mother didn't want me. She had
already started a family and if I came back, I would just remind her of the
mistakes that she had made.

No longer did I hold any admiration
for her. I knew her identity, a coward.

But I, the daughter of, to my
shame, a coward and an abuser, have learnt to become strong within myself.
Compared to them, I outshone them greatly.

Secretly, I wished that I wasn't
ashamed of my linage. I wished that I wasn't the result of a horrible marriage.


But to run away from the horrible
truth, something that my coward of a mother did, it will only lead to a
never-ending chase, causing jeopardy and calamity to the hearts of those
close-by.

I have friends and soon, I will be
starting a family. The precious education that I had lost as a child was given
back to me as I strived hard to become a studious individual.

Don't run away from your problems,
they'll only catch up with you in the end; and an eye for an eye will only make
you blind.

Enlightening, that sentence was for
me indeed. But I learned to live by that rule. Revenge on my father may have
been the only way to save me but I felt a small pang of regret that I had
actually harmed somebody.

It's not my fault. The only way for
me to survive was to hunt, like the lions of the jungle.

To fight back and to stand up for
myself, I became stronger.

But the pain I feel is still raw
and real. I never want to feel that pain again.

So I covered it and buried it with
fresh memories, a new life to hide my past.