A CRAZY EXPERIENCE

 

I was still young when it happened, but the memory sits in my chest like a wound that never fully closes. My father, the man who once held my hand across the road, became someone else, a stranger filled with rage. That night was like any other at first, quiet with the usual tension we had grown used to. Then the shouting began. Again. But this time, it didn’t stop. It rose and broke like a wave crashing through the walls. And before I could process what was happening, everything fell silent, followed by a scream that didn’t come from her mouth, but from mine.

He stabbed her. Over and over. I can’t count how many times, because I stopped breathing after the first. The knife was meant for something else, food, survival maybe  but in his hands, it became a weapon of control, frustration, maybe even madness. She collapsed in the kitchen, where she had cooked for him for years. The blood soaked into the same floor we once danced on during Christmas. And then he just stood there. Silent. Still. Like the act had emptied him completely.

The days that followed were blurry. Police. Neighbours. Crying relatives who arrived too late. They took him away  and I never saw him again, but the damage had already been done. The news called it "domestic violence." I called it murder. I had no words for how I felt just cold confusion, shame, guilt, and a heartbreak no child should ever have to carry. I was forced to grow up in that moment. The home was no longer a home. Just a house full of memories I didn’t ask for.

Years have passed, but I still look over my shoulder at night. I still flinch at raised voices. I still crave the version of life where she lived, and he never crossed that line. But what keeps me going is her smile, the one that used to light up even the worst days. I carry that with me now. And I remind myself daily: I am her child, not his mistake.

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