I Finally got the Message

They say life begins at 40, but why did mine start at the tender age of six? It all began when I was fast asleep, only to wake up to a devastating sight. Shattered objects were strewn across the floor, as if a storm had wreaked havoc in our home. My mother's tears flowed uncontrollably, joined by the cries of my four siblings. They pleaded with my father, desperately urging him to cease his assault on my mother. I can still vividly recall the image of my mother lying on the floor, shielding my siblings from harm's way. In that moment, my life flashed before my eyes as I witnessed my father forcefully dragging my mother out of the house, their hands locked in a painful struggle. Our dwelling, an unfinished second-floor building, provided us with a secluded space where our cries for help remained unheard by the outside world. Overwhelmed with emotion, I mustered the courage to stand up and confront my father, tears streaming down my face. I pleaded with him to stop hurting my mother, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. He callously pushed me aside and continued his assault, relentlessly striking my defenseless mother. The sight of blood trickling from her nose filled me with a mix of fear and determination. "Dada... Please stop!!! Dada... Mama is bleeding," I cried out, my words laced with pain and anger. My siblings, frozen in fear, could only watch helplessly, their tears mingling with mine. The echoes of their cries still haunt my thoughts, a constant reminder of their anguish and the burden we all carried. "Mama... Dada, stop... Dadaaa!" my siblings wailed, pouring their hearts out in the hope that our father would listen. But he remained deaf to our pleas, his violence unabated. As the relentless assault continued, I shielded my mother, enduring countless pushes and blows. The pain I felt was nothing compared to the pain etched on my mother's face. Finally, my father grew tired and retreated to the sofa, where exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into a deep slumber. There, on the floor, lay my mother, bleeding and devoid of strength, tears welling in her eyes. In that moment, I thought she had succumbed to the brutality. Desperate to wake her from this nightmare, I called out to her with every ounce of my being. "Mama!!!!!! Mama, wake up!!!! Mamaaaa... Please, Mama!!!" I screamed, my voice filled with desperation and hope, willing her to rise from the depths of her pain and find solace in my presence. My siblings rallied to my side, their presence providing a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. Together, we attempted to lift our mother, but her weakened state made her weight unbearable. Her clothes were torn and tattered, leaving her almost n***d and vulnerable. As the middle child among us, with two older brothers, a younger brother, and the youngest sister, I took charge of the situation. Understanding the urgency, I commanded my siblings to retrieve a shirt for our mother, to replace the blood-stained and torn garment she wore. "Go get mom her shirt now!" I directed, my voice filled with determination and a sense of responsibility that surpassed my tender age. At just six years old, I had already tasted the bitterness of pain, not inflicted by strangers, but by those closest to me within my own family. Even at such a young age, I recognized that our family was different from those of my friends. I would observe them, their parents playing together, sharing laughter, and a sense of unity. In those moments, all I could do was wish, fervently hoping that my own family could experience such joy and togetherness. Finally, my mother regained consciousness, seemingly unaffected by the ordeal she had just endured. With strength and composure, she rose from the floor and guided us into the house, leaving our father behind. "Go inside the house, go!" she whispered, her face bruised and her nose still bleeding. Confused, my brother questioned her, seeking an explanation for our sudden departure. But my mother insisted, "Just go inside." We entered our shattered home, finding solace together on the bed, huddled closely as a family. It was then that my mother gathered us around and began to explain what had transpired. "Your dad is drunk, that's why he did this," she said, her voice filled with a mixture of pain and avoidance, as if shielding us from the harsh reality of our father's actions. She cautioned us, "When he wakes up, do not annoy him. Just stay inside and watch TV." It was as if she wanted to protect us from further harm, as if pretending that the violence inflicted upon her had not taken place. My mother then proceeded to change her clothes and wash her face, her actions a silent testament to her resilience. She began picking up the broken pieces strewn across the floor, each item a painful reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. We watched in silence, feeling the weight of her pain as she cleaned up the aftermath. Despite my desire to help, she insisted that I stay with my siblings, keeping us close together. In the midst of this turmoil, my older brother, tears streaming down his face, mustered the courage to speak up. "Mom, let's leave," he pleaded, his voice filled with both desperation and a longing for safety. Our mother looked at us, her gaze filled with a mix of love, sadness, and determination. "That's your father," she said, her voice heavy with resignation. "We should not leave him." As tears streamed down my mother's face, she embraced us tightly, and we clung to her, our tears mingling with hers. Despite the heaviness of the situation, there was solace in the warmth of her embrace. Her body felt cold, but the love and comfort she provided were immeasurable. "Okay... Enough, let's just stay quiet so your dad can rest, okay?" she whispered, a bittersweet smile on her face and tears glistening in her eyes. We nodded in understanding, our hearts heavy with emotions. After a few minutes, exhaustion from the overwhelming emotions took over, and we fell into an uneasy sleep, unaware of the world around us, consumed by the weariness brought on by our tears. As I stirred in my sleep, my eyes fluttered open ever so slightly, allowing me to witness a tender moment. My mother, with a gentle touch, placed a loving kiss on each of our foreheads, her words carrying a depth of emotion that resonated within my heart. "I love you guys so much."