Rage

“I’m worried about you, Xola. Your grades have dropped drastically in the last six months. I’ve noticed that you’re quite withdrawn lately. So, I have to ask…is everything OK at home?” my teacher asked me, as I was leaving class to study.

“Yes, ma’am,’ I replied half-heartedly, keeping a straight face, “everything is fine.”

She didn’t seem at all convinced by my reply. “Come on, boy. You can tell me anything. You can trust me,” she said, placing her hand on mine.

“No, really. Everything is fine,” I said, with a smile.

Believe me when I say, I wanted to tell my teacher what was actually going on in my home. I wanted to tell her so badly. I wanted to just confess everything and cry on her shoulder and tell her that my father had turned into this hideous beast with no remorse whatsoever.

He wasn’t always like this. We were once a happy family. He was a good man that protected and cared for us. He used to work at a factory in Crown Mines that specialises in manufacturing stationery. The job paid him enough to support us through the year. Unfortunately, the factory fell on hard times and had to retrench some of their staff. Dad was left with no income.

Since then, he would drown his sorrows in alcohol, drinking day and night at a nearby shebeen. At first, he would get into heated arguments with my mother about his addiction. My mother had to work at a hotel that paid her peanuts and my father’s constant drinking was in no way helpful to our financial situation. He would, on occasion, hurl insults at her, and would always remind her that he was the head of the house. I still remember the first day he laid his hand on my mother. How she cried out for help every time she was struck. Then as time went on, he transformed into a violent maniac, always looking for a punching bag. Then he started to hit me too.

When he was drunk, he would always find a reason for hitting us, over and over again. I remember how embarrassed I would be going to school with a black eye. I could hear them whisper behind me. If anyone dared to asked what happened, I’d simply come up with a feeble excuse about how I ran into a pole, or how I fell and bruised my arm. The cycle of violence would continue.

As I entered the house, I found him sitting in the lounge. This was quite odd to me because usually he would spend most of his time at the local tavern. He looked quite lucid, not in his usual drunken state.

He slowly turned his head to look at me. “Where have you been?”

I looked at the digital clock on the shelf. It showed 16:30. School was dismissed at 14:30 and I had remained behind.

“I was studying,” I replied, in a soft tone.

“Come here, boy,” he said, with an eerie calmness.

At first, I hesitated. I wondered what he wanted from me. Was he planning to hit me again? This was the first time in years that I’d ever seen him sober. I slowly went closer and closer to him.

“Where’s my money?” he asked.

So, that’s why he was home early today. He must’ve lost the money he always stole from my mother’s purse. The sad thing about this was that my mother couldn’t confront him. If she dared question his authority, she would pay for it in bruises, cuts and tears.

I heard the door open. My mother had just entered with plastic bags and hastily went straight for the kitchen to prepare our supper without stopping to greet anyone. The smile that she used to have had faded long ago.

“Where’s my money?” he asked again.

I sighed, “I don’t know where…”

A hot slap left one of my cheeks with a stinging sensation. I could feel my eyes beginning to water.

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” He stood up from his seat. “I know that you took it, you probably spent it with your friends at school. That’s why you came home late!” I saw a venomous rage in his eyes.

The fear inside me raised warning flags in my head. My body backed away in response to those signals in anticipation of his dangerous deed.

Usually my father was in a slow and sluggish state when he hit us. This time though, he was furious…and his fury fuelled his attacks. His anger somehow had this amazing supernatural power of making him faster and his attacks swifter. Trying to escape was futile. Life itself was futile.

As he thrust his brutal fist at me, it felt as if time itself had stopped. My jaw made a crackling sound and an explosion of blood escaped my mouth. The force from the impact threw me straight to the tiled floor. Droplets of red were splattered all over my shirt. Another blow came crashing down on my abdomen. Air rushed out of my lungs.

I thought to myself: this is it. The bloody end was near. As he was preparing his final blow, two scrawny arms grabbed hold of my father’s arm.

“Stop!” shouted my mother, who was in tears.

For the first time ever, my mother dared to fight back. All for my sake. She held his arm tightly. One of her hands was holding the kitchen knife she was using to chop vegetables.

My father turned around and growled at her, swaying his arm away from her. She dropped the knife on the floor.

“Don’t defend this little thief!” My father shouted in anger, “He stole my money and now he should be punished!”

My mother cried, “Why are you doing this to us? You were so kind when we first met. I stayed loyal, thinking you could never be so brutal. I don’t even recognise you any more. You’ve turned into this vile, cruel beast!”

Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I tried to stand, the pain making it difficult. My chest was heavy with sadness. His temper flared again, his gaze focused on my mother. In a split second, my father rained a barrage of fists on my mother. Her cries and pleas for him to stop fell on deaf ears. She was helpless, lying there on the floor.

Seeing her like this was terrible. Her beauty was being tarnished by this hideous monster. I was sick and tired of how we were living. I was angry at him for all the pain and suffering he had put us through. I used to love and admire him. Now I wanted the pain to end. I wanted him gone. I lurched for the kitchen knife on the floor and then…

And then…

My mother sent out a bone-chilling scream. Blood sprayed everywhere like water from a faucet. My father gasped for air, trying to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen, but the blade lodged in his throat made it impossible. He slowly turned to look at the person who had impaled him. I saw the look in his eyes. They were no longer filled with rage like before. Instead, they were wide open with shock. Slowly, his lifeless body descended to the floor.

My father may have not realised it, but he was slowly turning me into a dangerous monster, like him. It was only a matter of time before the beast inside me was unleashed.