8 | Beaten memories

Plinio's POV:

"I am so sorry, honey. This won't happen again. I swear."

These were the exact words my Dad, Carlos Murray, beseeched to Mom with his hands folded. His fingertips had turned almost white.

Mom was sitting on the couch, rubbing ice over her swollen cheek and wiping away her tears like bird shit on the windscreen. Dad was kneeling in front of her on the floor, apologizing repeatedly. With each assurance he gave, my heart became confident that this miserable incident won't occur again. Because that ten-year-old Plinio believed that you don't hurt whom you love. 

I saw the scene unfold in front of my eyes as my mother forgave him. I was sitting on the cold wooden floor inside my room, peeking from the slightly ajar door. The cold sensation on my bare legs is still fresh because those were the days that marked the beginning of seeing my father breaking his promises.

My Mom, Caroline, was a history teacher in a middle school. She adored learning ancient history but loved teaching kids even more. She had learned Latin at the age of sixteen as her summer pastime.

Mom and Dad met on a blind date set up by one of Mom's friends. They hadn't talked much at first. Dad told Mom a joke that made her laugh. They became at ease with each other then and the silence was filled throughout the dinner. At the end of their date, Dad told me, he knew he wanted to see my Mom laughing at his jokes another time.

One date led to another and soon they got married. After giving birth to me, she decided to conserve her passion and so I grew up hearing and speaking Latin. English was a second language to me at that time.

It was Mom who came up with the name Plinio. It is Roman in origin but is also used in Latin as 'plinus' meaning rich, abundant, or in plenty. Mom firmly believed that names do have an influence on one's personality.

According to her, nothing would ever be minimal for me. Whether it be a talent, phase, emotion, health, prosperity, or anything. She always called me by my full name and admonished Dad for calling me Nio even though he was just teasing Mom to get a reaction from her.

That's how my Mom was. With my head on her lap every evening, she narrated to me the tales of both the mighty and the cruel of the past who had shaped their lives by their actions. She made me sit on the counter while she cooked and listened to whatever was on my mind. She laughed at my jokes with her mouth open; she knew very well that it was a very un-lady manner. One of her hands used to be on her stomach as we joked and with the other, she stirred the pot. The first slice of freshly baked bread was always reserved for me. 

After becoming the secretary of some well-known CEO, Dad didn't use to be at home much but I remember the three of us eating our dinner at the dining table, either cheering or choking with laughter. Mom was not fond of going out for vacation. Therefore the treehouse in our backyard was a personal resort.

Although they both respected each other's job yet it was the reason behind their initial brawls. 

Mom never said a word to Dad when he beat her. But on my eleventh birthday, Dad came home drunk and late. He broke Mom's favorite tea set. It had tiny lavenders drawn at its rim and Mom took it out only on certain occasions such as my birthday. Dad threw a fit about how ugly it was when I heard Mom swear at him.

"Futue te ipsi!" (fuck you) Mom showed him the middle finger and went to the bedroom, locking herself inside and Dad in the living room. He slammed the door and continued shouting until he passed out on the floor. I learned my first swear that night.

The second time Dad beat Mom when she came home late from school due to a meeting. Dad was fuming with anger because he was running late for one of his many meetings. Mom silently accepted the fit he threw. When he had left, she cleaned his mess without any trace of scorn on her face.

"Never mess with a man when he's an empty stomach, Plinio." She gently whispered to me applying ointment to the bruise on her forehead. She was covering her pain with her soothing voice. Yet the wince in her eyes was a blatant cry.

Mom also learned to hide those marks by make-up and appeared fine to the people outside. Mom ordered me to go to my room whenever their debate heated up. She didn't want Dad to raise his hand on me in his blind anger. I hid under the bed and from there, I would see their legs moving around the living room. One minute Dad was an inch away from her and the next minute, after a quick heavy sound, Mom was crumbling on the floor far from him. My legs would always tremor lying under the bed and I only got out once I heard Dad going out of the house, shutting the door behind him with a thud.

Naturally, I began hating him but fear always dominated it. The fear of getting slapped by Dad for standing against him for Mom, the fear of seeing my parents getting a divorce like most of the other couples, the fear of being left alone, and the darkest fear of all; the fear of losing my Mom.

Then I saw him, Joshua Stevens.

He was nothing compared to my Dad with his bald head and short height. He even dragged his feet like a retard when he walked. His wheezing car came to halt in front of our house and the dead leaves swept away from it in a rush. Dad was already at home that day. His car was standing outside. 

From my window, I saw that foreign man open the door for my mother with a toothy grin on his face. He looked to be almost the age of my Dad but something about his profile seemed deceitful. He walked Mom to the front door holding grocery bags in his hands. Mom offered him to come inside but he refused with a graceful little bow. He didn't leave until he had hugged and left a kiss on my mother's cheek.

"That man is the reason why your mother fights with me," Dad whispered from behind. Then put his hand on my shoulder. "But don't worry," I heard his smile, "she won't leave you because I earn more money than that filthy bastard can ever make in his lifetime."

I drew the curtains fighting back hot tears just as a very happy Mom entered the house and greeted us with a generous smile.

There, at the ripe age of thirteen, I came to learn that the world is full of merciless people and my Mom was, unfortunately, one of them. She was betraying my Dad. She was lying to her son. She was destroying our family. And I hated it. I hated her for it. 

She had been wrong to protect me from my Dad's wrath for it was she who made me feel pain for the first time. True to her conviction, the pain was in plenty.

Their fights became an agony after that. Dad wouldn't come home for one or two days and Mom wouldn't leave her room unless it was for me. She went to school only thrice a week and was on the verge of the suspension according to Dad. Her students asked me the reason behind her absence and I unblinkingly told them that she wasn't feeling too good. 

At home, I had to force her to make her favorite garlic bread to somehow see the hint of my real mother in her. She hesitated at first but agreed eventually and for the next few hours, she returned to her old self. She limped and laughed while I sat and talked.

Once or twice her phone rang and the name of Joshua flashed on the screen. Mom would stare at it but within seconds, she switched it off and put it aside. Her fragile hands rubbed against my hair as she told me stories once again till I slept.

However, the deplorable atmosphere returned when Dad came home. He disliked the aroma of bread in the house. He shouted at me for being messy. He smashed the plates on the wall when Mom served him. He switched off the television when I sat to watch with Mom. He even punctured the tire of Mom's car once so she couldn't go out. But Mom endured it all without uttering a single word. Deep down, I knew it was all because of Dad's wealth.

A few weeks later, at school, I overheard a bunch of boys making fun of the way my Mom walked. She was limping due to Dad's beating and had lied that she was suffering from a mild case of gout. One of the boys even imitated her gait. I didn't waste a second in teaching him a good lesson.

But Mom wasn't happy with me. She took away my video games, my roller skates, and even my mobile. She even forbade me from leaving the house with friends. We didn't bake anything that evening.

Dad and she fought again that night. It was severe than before and I could see the walls vibrating due to Dad's incessant shouting. I hid under my bed again and didn't even bother to turn on the lights. My head was throbbing and I could hear every voice even when my sweaty palms were tightly covering my ears. My leg started to shake more than ever each time I heard Mom's voice.

She had never yelled before except that one time on my birthday. Her voice had always consoled me when I was afraid or scolded me when I was wrong. But this tone was new and it gave me shivers.

"He will become like you ...." I couldn't hear anything clearly. "Joshua...nothing like you...my son...just for him....filing a divorce...."

Divorce. She had uttered that word. My Mom was going to leave my Dad. She was going to leave me for an unknown man. Inside my head, behind my closed eyes, I was picturing the two of them walking away. I was left behind under the bed, all alone with the darkness.

Then I heard a gunshot.

The shouting fell dead. There were no heavy footsteps on the floor or the sounds of the furniture being dragged around. No plate was being smashed. My heart was beating in my ears and the eerie silence was crawling under the bed beside me. I scooted away from it and stepped out of the room. 

I smothered my hiccup with a hand around my mouth when I saw them before me in the living room. Dad was standing there, running a hand through his disheveled hair, staring wide-eyed between the gun in his hand and my mother on the floor. 

She was lying there among the broken shards of glass. Her right hand was on her abdomen which was turning crimson and damp by every passing second. Her head was tilted in my direction. Her lips were wearily mouthing something inaudible and she was desperate to tell something. Helpless tears were flowing from her once cheerful eyes.

I ran to her and sat there ignorant of the forming pool of blood around us. The sight was unbearable and I didn't know what to do. The one who taught me everything about life was breathing erratically in front of me. So I just screamed her name over and over again.

She brought her warm hand near my face and gently wiped away the tears. She cupped my cheeks and held my hands with all the energy she had. Her pale lips curled in a small smile. Then she closed her eyes for good.