Prelude
The best memories I have of my mum are without my Dad. In those memories, Mum would always be smiling, and we would be in the midst of laughter, singing or dancing. The tension that sat heavy on our lives was gone when Dad wasn’t around. We were free. But when Dad came home, the bracelet went back on Mum’s wrist, and a sense of oppression and fear wafted through the rooms. We changed. Mum was always tired, making Dad extra grumpy, which resulted in arguments.
It had always been this way. I don’t know why Mum was always tired around Dad. But it seemed to always revolve around that bracelet that Dad made sure Mum was wearing.
But as soon as he arrived, he was gone again. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. Mum explained that Dad was a trucker, always on the road. I was grateful when he was gone, but that fear of not knowing when he would return was always in our minds.
Dad’s presence was always felt in our house, even when he wasn’t there. We had teacups with no handles and chairs with uneven legs. Holes in the wall. I remember having a plate, my favourite plate when I was a kid. It was porcelain with a colourful picture of a duck on it. That didn’t escape Dad’s wrath. I remember holding the pieces together and crying after he left. Mum promised me she’d buy me another one. But she never did. Those plates never came back into sale.
Yes, I have happy memories of my mother, but none of my dad. I hate him.
I grew up reading fairy tales and watching Disney movies. Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty. Snow White. Stories where a handsome prince rides along his white horse and rescues the maiden in distress. I always wished Mum’s prince would come. Not the gruff of a man who called himself my father.
Secretly, I wished for that myself as well, a handsome knight or prince to come to my rescue and look after me. Dreams are free, right?
I’m seventeen now, and thankfully, Dad’s visits have become few and far between. I would be happy with that, except for Mum. I guess love is a complicated emotion.
I never understood my mother and the love she had for that man. She spends weeks moping around the house when he leaves, crying and calling out for him. Eventually, she would stop, wipe her face and put her happy front back up. I once asked her why she missed Dad so much, considering how he behaved when he was home. Her words haunted me: “Sometimes fate deals you a rough hand. You have to walk your path the best you can.”
I would rather be single than to have that for myself. When I told Mum as much, she told me that being away from Dad was mentally and physically challenging. She told me they were soulmates and that when apart, she longs for him in her stomach- so much so that it hurts.
I don’t want a soulmate or any partner, in fact, if it makes me feel like that. I think Fairy Tales and Disney movies have a lot to answer for, in fact.
I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear a car pull into our driveway. Placing the bowl I am drying onto the bench, I walk over to the window and peer through the curtain.
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath.
I ran into Mum’s room without knocking.
“Jasmine?” Mum asks. She’s just come out from the shower and is wearing only a towel. Her hair is also wrapped in a towel, and she looks tired.
“He’s here,” I hiss, running to the jewellery box where her silver bracelet is kept. Mum follows me, crying in pain when I place it on her wrist. Immediately, I see the bracelet’s effects on her. Her skin goes red where it touches, and her face washes in exhaustion.
I don’t know why the bracelet has this effect on mum. When I was younger and would touch it, the bracelet would sting me a little bit, but as I’ve grown, I feel nothing.
Mum sighs and sits on her bed, her eyelids drooping. A banging begins on the door, and he begins to yell. I rush to the door before he tears it off the hinges again, and I let the monster in.
“Where’s your whore mother!” he screams at me. Knowing not to look up, I point to her room.
“Fern, get here!” Dad yells, lifting my chin with his fingers so I am forced to face him. I try to look everywhere but into his eyes. I know what colour they are, dark, like his soul.
“You look just like her,” Dad spits. At those words, Mum walks in. Like me, her demeanour is weak, her head bowed to the floor.
“Andrew,” mum greets softly.
“This is for you,” Dad growls, shoving a box into my chest. I stumble back as I take it, looking down at the gift.
“Bitch I gave you a present. Open it, for fucks sake,” Dad growls. I open the carved wooden box and see a silver bracelet like my mother’s.
“No, Andrew, please. You can’t do this to her,” Mum begs. I look at my mother and watch as she makes the mistake of clinging to his arm as she speaks. Dad shoves her off in one movement, making her fall roughly to the floor.
“Put it on,” Dad growls again.
“Please, Andrew. I did as you wished. I’ve never told her. Please, not this,” Mum pleads.
“Shut up whore!” Dad yells, taking two steps forward and whacking her across the face. The slap is loud, and Mum’s head flips to the side. I watch as Mum touches her lip and then looks at her fingers, which are covered in blood. Mentally, I think about getting her an ice pack for it once he leaves.
“But…” Mum protests again.
“It’s…it’s okay,” I stutter, placing the bracelet on my wrist. I don’t feel the slightest difference but I make a face for my father’s benefit.
“Fucken dumb whore,” Dad growls, stepping over to Mum and grabbing her by the arm.
“Stay!” he orders me, pulling Mum toward her room.
“Fucken whore! Do you think you’re the boss here? She’s my daughter. She does what I say!” he yells, banging the door behind him.
My lower lip quivers as I hear the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. I’m grateful I can’t see it, but hearing it hurts enough.
I find a place in the corner of the room and pull my knees towards me, covering my ears with my hands. I don’t want to hear mum’s screams or her body hitting the walls, and I sob uncontrollably.
Why isn’t anyone coming to help? Can’t anyone hear? I yell into my mind. Then everything goes quiet. I take my hands away from my ears and look up toward Mum’s bedroom. My face is wet from my tears.
“Say it, say the words!” Dad’s yelling pieces the sudden quiet.
“I, Fern Aubert of the Riverwood Pack, accept the rejection of Andrew Aubert of the Phoenix Pack.”
What the heck? What was that? I think to myself. There’s a pause and then another scream from my mother. I place my hands over my ears and head back between my knees and rock.
I hear an angry animal noise, then silence. I’m unsure how long I sit there, rocking and crying into my knees. Time is insignificant as I reel from all that has happened. What started as an okay day ended up as hell.
I didn’t hear my father leave, too engrossed in my ugly tears. I know I need to get up and help Mum, but first, I must calm my mind and breathing.
Slowly, I move from my spot in the corner. The house was quiet, and I could no longer smell the scent of my father in the home. My legs hurt from being in the same position, and my feet have pins and needles, making walking hard.
With effort, I take small steps to my mother’s room. The door creaks open slowly, and I turn the light on to see better.
“No!” I scream when I see my mother sprawled on her bed, her body crooked. No! I yell at the same time inside my head.
