My mother left me when I was 6. She left me with my father. I suppose she couldn’t take the beatings any longer. The verbal and physical abuse. Do I blame her? I’m not sure. You see, it wasn’t always like that. They were happy once. Full of thoughts of grandeur lifestyles. Thoughts of having a happy family. However, the world isn’t all too nice a place you see. Especially if you’re born into poverty. If you have to constantly fight to survive. I don’t mean literal of course. I’m not over here fighting a cat for a piece of ham. I mean figuratively. The world is fucked up. The sooner you realize that, the longer you live. That’s just how I see it. Either way, for a young naive couple like them, they didn’t know what was coming. My mom was raped. That’s the gist of it. Nobody ever caught the guy that did it. I guess they really didn’t care too much about a couple of immigrants. My mom was traumatized for life. My father… well, he didn’t know how to deal with it. I can’t blame him either. I wouldn’t have known how to deal with it either. He loved her. He really did. That’s why it was so hard for him. To know someone had hurt my mother. To know someone had laid his hands on her. He loved her too much. And that was the problem. You see, love breeds hate. And hate needs a source. My father couldn’t stand to look at my mother. It destroyed him. Unraveled him into a whimpering mess. I think that was the first time I saw my father cry. He drowned himself in alcohol to get away from his fucked up life. I don’t think its right to call her my mother though, I mean she was technically my mother but she really wasn’t, you understand? Not after everything that happened anyways. She stopped calling me “her little boy”. Now that I think about it she stopped talking to me altogether. Again, I couldn’t blame her. She was only just a victim. But wasn’t I too? Of being unloved? I suppose it’s selfish to think that way but I can’t help it. Sometimes you just have to be selfish. Or else you find yourself doing everything for other people and nothing for yourself. Like nursing my dad back to health every night just so he could wake up in the morning and try to touch my mother only to have her flinch from trauma. She got flashbacks you see. They were pretty bad. She used to keep me up half the night screaming. My father would never wake up. He was always passed out in bed where I left him. Either way, when he tried to touch her, she would flinch and scream. That hurt my father. A lot. You see, when you’ve loved and been with someone for such a long time, you get these little routines you do. Like waking them up with kisses all over their face. Or hugging them every morning before you go to work. Either way, my father had a routine. To hug and kiss my mother first on the forehead, then the two eyelids, then both cheeks, nose, chin and afterwards the lips. That’s not the point. The point is he would beat her and yell at her to love him. I had to watch. Every time as my father crippled my mother’s self esteem more and more until there was nothing left. She hung herself on my 6th birthday. Again, I didn’t blame her. I still loved her. The old her that is.