心への死 (Kokoro e no shi)

What is it like to drown? I hold my breath for as long as I can. I hope it is not some corruption in me that brings her flaws out. When the water and soap are up to my eyes, my mother closes the lid. I am tossed around in a small sea of soap and darkness that she calls a “farm bath”, hoping for the tiniest bit of light. She must think this is fun, but every time I hop into this large container, I don't know if I will die. My eyes sting and my lungs burn, but every time I survive such casual indifference.

We lived on the farm for the first five years of my life. When my parents separated, I moved into town with my mother and siblings. My mother was always violent and mean. I know that, but I assumed like all children do, that somewhere deep down inside her, she must love me.

My mother was proud that she hit her kids. It instilled a sense of discipline, apparently. A sense of fear was more like it. I was the youngest child in the family, so I escaped a lot of my mother’s direct violence. Nobody likes seeing bruises on a little kid. Teenagers were fine, so my older brother often wore the results of her brute force.

Even the wicked must get lonely and desperate for money. So, a few months after we moved into the city, my mother introduced her new husband to the family. While my mother wore her cruelty on her sleeve, my stepfather hid his under smiles and presents. It was more sinister and the kind of cruelty that didn’t leave visible bruises. For five long years, they made the perfect pair. Brute violence and sinister intent.

I was never sure why my stepfather married my mother. I imagined she would be like marrying an angry bear that had rabies. It didn’t occur to me until I was older, that my mother had four things that my stepfather prized dearly. She had four boys aged 11, 9, 7 and 6. Unfortunately for me, my stepfather had taken a liking to the youngest. For the first year and a half of this durance vile, my stepfather and mother both delivered this sadistic abuse. I was stolen from my bed in the night, smitten with their cruel affliction, then returned to my bed in the early morning.

It was an odd deed that I didn’t understand, but it hurt, and made me feel confused and ill. Despite my parents' warnings, I told one of my brothers in the first month. Once my mother and stepfather found out, I was beaten on the back of the legs and branded a liar to the rest of the family. I was warned that I would lose my brothers and sisters if I ever told anyone again. So, my sacrifice continued, with no one aware of the burden I was carrying.

Around the six-month mark, I tried to run away from home with no success. A feat I tried again at months 7 and 8. I felt trapped, weighed down heavy by a sickness in my soul. By the 13-month mark, it became too much, and hope was absent. On one Saturday afternoon, when my brothers and sister were down at the park playing, I decided to hang myself.

I found an elastic strap with metal hooks in the garage and scurried up the side of the house to the roof. I fastened one end around my neck and the other end to the gutter. I loved cartoons and anime. In those shows, the heroes always had some triumphant battle cry they yelled as they faced insurmountable odds. I stood on the roof of my house with a strap around my neck, looking for my battle cry. The only thought that came was – “I wonder what it is like to drown”. I jumped off.

My mother found me maybe a minute later. I was lying on the ground attached to a large piece of the gutter by the strap around my neck. I had overestimated how much weight the gutter would hold. My mother smacked me on the face to wake me up. She freed the strap from around my neck and told me to go inside as she was concerned the neighbours would see. I stumbled inside and found my way to my room. I hid as far as I could under my bed and started crying. There was no escape. No way out of this hell. I was breathing so hard my lungs began to burn. In the darkness, alone, I found my purpose. I needed to survive. But I couldn’t feel like this again. I couldn't feel at all. I couldn't show this to anyone.

Death to my feelings.

Death to my heart.

My mother fell pregnant around the 17-month mark, and my stepfather took over the reins as the sole abuser. It makes my hands shake just thinking about it. By the time I was 11, my mother’s psychotic nature had found a worthy home finally, and my stepfather couldn’t take it. He cracked after a few months and left. The abuse finally stopped when my stepfather moved out. After that, he used to follow me to school sometimes, but that stopped when he had a heart attack when I was 15. I never told anyone.

My mother died when I was 22. Neither of them is worth a eulogy. I survived them both. Keeping a promise, I made myself when I was 7. Sometimes, when I have the time, I sink deep into the bath. Hold my head underwater as long as I can. Open my eyes and slowly float to the surface. To remind me that I can survive such casual indifference. Hoping someday to give some life to my heart again.