THE REAL YOU.

*SHORT STORY*

THE REAL YOU
(#Say ‘NO' to domestic violence. Do not pass it on.#)

“Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” so I say each and every passing day like the queen in that famous fairy tale—Snow White and the Seven Dwarf. The long, portrait-framed, glass coated, glistening object in my bedroom was always quick to respond as it pleases me, “Of course you are, my lady: 31years looking 25, spotless and light-skinned like the Sun, moderate height of 5.11inches, finely chiseled hourglass frame with curves in all the right places, shoulder-length ebony hair that befits your round face. Oh sexy mama, you are the perfection of beauty. The best of men would kill to lick the dust at your feet. You are good to go for the day.”

Was my mirror only flattering? Not at all. At its words, I was always on top of the world; gliding over heads as I faced each day's work with swelling confidence.

I was a successful lawyer; women’s right defence counsel in particular. Of the 13 cases I had represented, I won all but one, which my client decided to settle out of court. I was the Barrister in charge of Lawson and co; the law firm where I worked. The only female lawyer amidst 7 very competent males. I call the shots. And when I speak, my word is Law.

I married a man of my choice, lived in a house of my choice, drove a car of my choice, had a 4yrs old boy and wasn’t ready for another child as I wouldn’t want anything tampering with my well-trimmed figure. My husband respected my decision, it was a matter of understanding. In all, I was happy and fulfilled, living my dream till this dreadful day.

I came before my mirror dressed in a gray colored, medium-length skirt suit with a conservative white blouse and a sleek, black high heels that shot up my height few inches. I was already full of myself, just needed the usual endorsement.
“Mirror mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?” I had expected the normal singing of praise when all of a sudden I was met with a shocking reflection that rocked my depth to rumbles. From the sparkling white light that bounced off its surface, I could bet I had seen a ghost. “Nooooo!” my inmost being screamed out in fear and conflict, God forbid I look like my monstrous, deceased father. He can die a thousand times more for all I care, before he makes it to the gate of hell, through which he was certain to find permanent lodging. “I am my mother’s replica,” I reassured and affirmed over and over. I wiped mist off the glass; that must be the reason behind the ugly appearance.
“Mirror mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?” I looked again, more intensely this time. And there was my father again. Not like I had embodied his middle-parted bald head that displayed his bulging eyes, thick lips bounded by scanty mustache linked to the beards, which stem to his pronounced Adam’s apple and down his broad shoulders that merged into his chubby form; bearing his pot belly, but I was the exact characterization  of his temperament traits. All of him I saw in me: his domineering, nagging, difficult, abusive character.

As a little child,  growing up wasn’t a jolly ride at all. I was exposed too early to the ills in the society, and that was right from my home.
Father was a cab driver while mother was a confectionery trader. She ran her petty sales and grinded pepper alongside in a small shop attached to our self-contained apartment. Mother had no fixed time she closes for the day, she shuts her shop at the coughing sound of my father’s Jalopy Toyota Carina. The moment he was home, terror always seemed to descend and displace the peaceful atmosphere. Quickly, mother suspends whatever she was doing to go attend to; or better put, serve him.
“Woman! where is my food?” he calls for it as though hunger had flayed his life line to thread, and was at the verge of breaking apart.
“How come the soup is this cold? At that, mother was off to the kitchen to get it warmed.
That I can remember, I can count at fingertips the number of times father commended mother’s cooking. But for the times he complained of it; those can be likened to the hairs on my head. The meal was either too cold, salty or small; morsels too soft or hard, it was always one fault or the other like an over pampered child.
Father was good at pointing out things lying out of place around the house, but never lifted a finger to put them in order.
“Haha, these clothes are still here, yet to be wrapped in folds? What do you do at home while I am out there toiling hard to fend for the family, do you just sit around all day eating fat on the food I provide?”
‘Eating fat' indeed. I wonder what extraordinary flesh his meager monthly housekeep can add to one. Once he doled it out at the beginning of a month, not a penny can shake off his pocket till the next. Except if there was a case of hospital emergency. Even at that, father would be sure one was dying before he parts with his money.
In the real sense, mother was the one who sends  wind beneath the family's sails. If not, the ship was sure to have capsized. She augments the little father brings to the table with a good percentage of the profits she makes from her trade and thrift savings.

The part I found so hard to comprehend was why father would raise his hand at mother at the slightest offence. His shameless act knew no timing. It could be in the middle of the night; putting neighbors out of peaceful sleep, or during the day, not minding having me as the chief spectator. I cried with my mother as though I was beaten alongside. In a deeper sense, I was; as mine was more of psychological torture. My academic performance dropped almost to zero level at school. I made my grades from the rear and so became a laughing stock amidst peers. Most times I kept to myself. Even with all these, I found school a better ambient to my ever squabbling home.

Very few men do not fall prey to at least one of these vices: drinking, smoking and womanizing.  Father was game for the three. He smoked like a chimney. He was such an addict his red lips turned dark and his right index finger with the middle finger stiffened as though he was an ambassador of the sign of peace. Father also drinks as much as he smoked. If shares could be given by how much one drinks, father was certain to be one of the top shareholders at the brewery. He came home  late one night, reeling back and forth like a turbulent wave. As Mother opened the door, she was thrown backwards with a smack across the face. “Woman, what took you so long to open this door?” his words slurred one after the other. I knew as usual that he wasn't through with his battering, but had not expected his next move as it was very unlike him.
In a twinkling of an eye, he charged at mother and knock her down to the settee. He went over her with one knee dug into the couch and his other leg firmly planted to the floor. Then he went for the buckle of his belt. I had never seen father beat mother with belt, so that was strange to me. Just then, mother who was looking dazed by the sudden fall seemed to have regained her strength. She began struggling with him. “Our daughter is here,” I heard her repeat over and over again. Well, he had beaten her many times before my eyes, so I didn’t see anything new having me stand around like a referee while he was at it again. When he went for her night gown and split it down midway, I knew something had gone wrong with him. And like a raving lunatic, he pressed down on mother times without number, while she screamed on under him. That night, I feared he was going to kill her with this strange way of beating. For a girl of 6years, what I saw was just too much for my tender mind to bear. I had grown older before I could really comprehend what took place. If I had known the effect the X-rated scene I was exposed to would have on the rest of my life, perhaps I would have moved away from the vantage point where I stood watching. TO BE CONTINUED……….......
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Food For Thought.
* Many people would be scared if they saw in the mirror, not their faces……but their characters.

*That ugly temperament you so manifest with ease, could it be from your father or mother’s side? It is capable of destroying your well-made life, nip it in the bud now.