Yes, I do.

YID.02

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Tears rolls down my eyes, as I gaze at mum's manhandled body. The sight alone is disheartening, unpleasant and heartbreaking. The clothing on her body looks more like pieces of rag sewn together. Her hair is all over the place like it was cut by a scissors, but it wasn't scissors that did the cuttings. It was Dad’s hands.

My eyes scans mum’s body to find out any severe injury. Nope, there isn't but there will be, in her heart.

Her body lay unconsciously on the floor, looking dead. I began to think of what to do. Racking my brain, I found nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don't know what to do. My brain is blank. My fingers began to fidget, sweat dripping down my face mixing with my tears.

I look up to see Matilda staring at me.
“Help me,” I mouthed to her.

Matilda walk briskly across the room to where I was. She knelt down and closed her eyes.

Do something! I scream in my head.

She moved her hand to mum’s mouth to open it slightly. Then, she lowered her own mouth to mum's own and pumped air into her mouth.

She continue this process whilst applying little pressure on mum’s chest. After what seem like hours, mum sneezed.
As soon as this happened, Matilda walked back to where she was before. Probably, giving I and mum our alone time.

Mum's eyes opened and closed at once due to the penetration of light. She opens them again, this time, slowly. I continue to stare at her, waiting for her outburst.

“Mum, are you ok?” Ruth asks, walking into the room, with her eyes locked to mum’s body, scrutinizing her.

With that, mum looks at herself. Her dried eyes looked back up with tears running down her face.

“H..he did..”mum sniffs,“He did this to me,” mum looks up at me, pointing a finger to my face. “Your father did this to me,” mum says, straining every single word.

Looking at Ruth, her eyes already watering. “Matilda, please take Ruth back to-”

Ruth runs to her room before I finish my sentence, Matilda following her.

I look back at mum who's trying to stand to her feet but failing woefully. “Call Theresa.” Mum groans.

I pick up my phone to call mum’s best friend, with whom I am not comfortable with. I don't just feel comfortable with Mrs Theresa. I caught her one day smacking her lips and blinking her unusually long eyelashes at Dad, whilst he smirk and winked back. I shudder.

“He raped me. Your father raped me.” She keep saying this over and over again like she's in a trance, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I bow my head in disappoinment of Dad’s behaviour. Gosh! I hope mum is strong enough. I'm too young to start counselling anyone out of their traumatic experience. Dad wasn't like this before. All of a sudden, he changed about three weeks ago, exactly a day after my twentieth birthday.

How could he? How dare he? Why? Why would he do this? He raped his own wife for goodness sake. Don't husband and wife agree for this kind of things? Why would he take her forcefully? How on-

“I can't believe your father did this to me, after all the love, care and support I showed him. After all I have done for him, he still had the guts to do this to me,” mum says, still trying to get on her feet. “I loved him when no one did. What's happening? What's happening to my marriage?” mum stare into space, as she questioned no one in particular.