Conflicts

Conflicts

Idara Wilson
Granados
English 1302
March 1, 2011
Shoot me now
I tried hard not to love her. I tried to force myself to treat her with the same cold, cruel indifference with which she regarded me. I even tried to hate her. But in the end it was futile. I knew that I could never hate her. She was my mother, and some filial bond, which I could not deny, incurably drew me to her. Apparently the connection was one-way only.
I knew that my mother resented me, had resented me since I was five years old and my father had walked out on her after using her as a human punching bag. This was not in itself unusual. My father was an alcoholic who was burdened with a family too young in life. My parents' relationship was stained with adultery and physical abuse from both sides. My mother was the most frequent victim, but there were occasions when she was on the delivering end. She had even resorted many times to going after me with her fists, a belt, or (the worst) an extension cord. Surprising, my father had never gotten violent with me. He rather adored me. I was his little angel, his spitting image in little-girl-child form. Possibly this made my mother jealous. Perhaps this is why the hate started. Maybe my memory is a little off, and she had really always hated me, even before my father left. Maybe it had always been that way, but that night had just made it worse. That night,
we waited up for him, my mother and I. She sat on the living room sofa, seemingly in a daze, still clutching in her fist the bloody rag, which she had used to stop the bleeding from her nose. She was completely tuned out, which was maybe the only reason she allowed me to climb up beside her. I snuggled against her, laid my head against her breast, and was comforted by the steady rise and fall of her breathing. She absently stroked my nappy, uncombed hair. Embraced by love and warmth, I fell asleep.
I don't remember the rest of that night, but at some point my mother must have carried me to...