The Day She Left
1274 Words
CHAPTER 5
Going home after school was not really an exciting thing for me. I would rather stay outside than home. My home terrified me more than anything on earth.
I walked to my mum's room and found her on the bed. It was very strange because she doesn't often sleep for too long.
I went closer to her. Her body was cold, eyes half opened, her lips were slightly parted as if she wanted to speak.
I sat on the bed, hugged my knees to my chest, breathed in and out. “One, Two, Three” I counted like I always did.
I called her name once, no answer.
I dropped to my knees, shaking her body and I started screaming her name.
“I'm here mama please I'm here, mama don't leave me, please mama I'm here” I cried
“Mama” I yelled
Nothing. She did not breathe, she did not respond, her heart stopped beating and her pulses stopped responding.
Then I knew it was over.
The doctor said it was internal bleeding. Too much trauma.
The other doctor said it was murder.
But the only word that I heard was “your mother is gone”
At the funeral, a lot of people came. Some people I knew, most I don't. They talked about my mum.
They said she was a good woman, they said she was quiet, they said she was very calm, they said she was a good wife.
But no one talked about the bruises, no one talked about the pain, no one talked about the fear she carried, no one talked about her death.
I wanted to scream.
After the funeral, everyone went back to their various destinations and I was stuck with him.
After my mum died, he became very distant. Small sounds annoyed him, being too quiet made him angry.
“Hazel” his voice cut through the house
“Yes sir” I answered quickly
“Come here.”
I stood, careful not to scrape the chair. Small sounds annoyed him.
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching.
“Why do you look scared all the time?” he asked.
“I’m not scared,” I lied.
His hand moved suddenly, gripping my chin.
“Don’t lie to me.”
His fingers pressed harder than necessary. enough to leave marks where others could see—and it was enough to hurt.
“I’m not lying,” I whispered.
He released my chin with a small shove. “Useless child. Always acting strange.”
As if fear were a performance.
The house had moods.
In the morning, it was tense but quiet. Afternoons were unpredictable. Nights were the worst.
At night, the sounds were louder. Shadows were longer. There were fewer places to run.
My bedroom door had a small c***k near the hinge. I would normally press my eye to it, watching the hallway light.
Now I pushed a chair under the knob instead.
It wouldn’t stop him.
But it made me feel less helpless.
I slept lightly, one ear awake. Every shift of wood. Every creak of metal. Every change in breathing outside my room.
Fear made me very sharp.
At school, teachers said I was “mature for my age.”
They didn’t know maturity had been forced on me.
One evening, I dropped a glass while washing dishes.
The crash echoed like a gunshot.
My heart stopped.
From the living room came the familiar silence—thick, waiting.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
I did not turn around.
“I’m sorry,” I said before he spoke.
“You’re always sorry,” her father replied coldly. “Sorry doesn’t fix stupidity.”
“It slipped,” I said quietly.
“Everything slips with you.”
He grabbed my wrist, dragging me away from the sink. Water dripped onto the floor.
“You think money grows on trees?” he demanded.
“No, sir.”
“You think I work for this?” He gestured toward the broken glass.
“No, sir.”
“Then why can’t you do one thing right?”
I did not answer.
The first strike came without warning. A sharp blow across my back. I bit down on my lip to stop the cry from escaping.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know!” I gasped.
Another strike.
Fear flooded my body, hot and dizzying. One thing was sure: do not fall. Falling made it worse.
When he finally let go, I stumbled against the wall.
“Clean it up,” he said flatly, as if nothing had happened.
I nodded.
My hands shook as I picked up the shards.
One small piece sliced my finger. Blood mixed with dishwater.
I stared at it.
Red looked louder than it felt.
Sometimes the a***e was loud.
Sometimes it was quiet.
The quiet was worse.
He would stand too close. Watch me too long. Criticize the way my body was changing as I grew older.
“Don’t walk like that,” he would snap.
“Like what?”
“Like you want attention.”
I did not understand what he meant, but shame wrapped around me anyway.
I began wearing oversized clothes. Wearing baggy trousers and a big shirt. I kept my eyes on the floor and made myself smaller.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
“You think you’re better than me?” he accused one night.
“No.”
“You look at me like you hate me.”
“I don’t.”
But part of me did.
And it was terrifying
Because hating him felt dangerous.
The worst nights came without warning.
I would hear my name spoken in a low tone from the hallway.
“Hazel.”
Not shouted.
Just called.
And my chest would tighten instantly.
“Yes?” I would answer through the door.
“Open this.”
Sometimes he claimed he wanted to “talk.” Sometimes he said I was “acting distant.”
Every nerve in my body screamed to stay silent.
But silence could also provoke him.
If I apologized, I was “admitting guilt.”
If I defended myself, I was “disrespectful.”
If I cried, I was “manipulative.”
If I don't cry, I was “cold.”
There was no correct answer.
Only survival.
The fear reached its peak the night he accused me of telling outsiders about the house.
“Who have you been talking to?” he demanded.
“No one!”
“Don’t lie!” He knocked over a chair.
“I didn’t say anything!”
He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. “If I ever find out you’ve been spreading stories—”
“I haven’t!” I cried.
Tears blurred my vision. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear him.
“I would never—”
“Good”
Or the other night when he got home from work drunk.
“Hazel”
I breathe in and out
“Sir”
“Go and get food for me from the restaurant across the street”
“But I cooked” I insisted
“Are you challenging me ??”
Fear struck me and I began shaking”
“No i…..”
Before I could complete my statement, I heard a loud slap
He slapped me twice and left.
I wanted to cry but afraid he'll hear my voice, I became silent.
Even after I was removed from the home temporarily, the fear followed me in echoes—jumping at loud sounds, sleeping with lights on, flinching when someone raised their voice.
- Writer
