Routine

I knew the routine.
Even before I knew me.
When Dad was happy, we were happy.
When Dad was not happy, we dare not be happy.
We were to stay far away.
Far, far away from him.

I knew the routine.
The happy times were compensation for the bad times.
The welts on my back, and Mother’s bloodshot eyes
Foretold what was to come.
We would receive gifts later on. Gifts we didn’t ask for.
Gifts we had long learnt to stop rejoicing about.
A classic case of the chicken and the egg.
Which came first?
The good times that were because of the bad times?
Or the bad times because it gave way to the good times.

I knew the routine.
The days in between the good and bad.
When Dad was nowhere to be found.
Mother would be extra busy then...
Cleaning me up. Cleaning herself up.
For Sunday services and days at school.
She’d cake her face with so much make-up,
That the slightest twitch would cause it all to crack.
She usually had an expressionless face on those days.
Like a porcelain doll.
Only if you looked a little bit closer,
You would clearly see the cracks. The jagged, ugly cracks.

I knew the routine.
No questions were to be asked, and no statements made.
Just like the cleaning up, we were prepped for life outside our little dungeon
“If you’re asked this, say this.” “If you’re asked this, remain silent.”
I was schooled to protect?
But protect what, exactly?
The darkness? Our suffering?
Nevertheless, silent I stayed.

So that when kind Miss Ada held my notebook,
That had round, reddish brown droplets, to my face,
I smiled and told her it was hot chocolate.
And I watched her smile wane.
Maybe I didn’t lie well enough,
But I’d be darned if I told her,
That it was the blood that flew from Mother’s broken nose onto my book as Dad rained blows on her face.
That I’d been doing my homework.
And I didn’t stop or look up once even as the blood decorated on the immaculate pages of my book.

I knew the routine.
Back ramrod straight, chin up, face stretched tightly into a smile.
Mother said that we should keep the darkness hidden.
Even though we both knew they wouldn't confront it
Even if it hit them square in the eye.
“Why can’t we just leave?” was met with a grimace.
“There’s nowhere to go,” she replied quietly.

I knew the routine.
But the routine changed on that day.
The day I came back to a quiet house.
To a quiet mother,
Who held her hands quietly in front of her.
“He’s not coming back,” she said.
“Who?” I asked, even though I knew who she was referring to.
I looked at her closely and saw the tear streaks on her face.
I rushed into her arms and hugged her tightly, tears flowing down my cheeks as well.
It was over. Finally over.

As I made my way up the stairs, I suddenly turned and locked eyes with Mother just in time to see her squelch a grin.
A silent message passed between us.
I wasn’t going to talk about the streaks of red on her dress, or the splotches of crimson at the side of her neck,
And most of all, the pale hands I saw peeking behind the settee she currently sat on.
Our lives were starting anew.
The darkness we feared was no more.
The one that now sat permanently in its place,
Was a friend.

Jhymi🖤

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