BROKEN NEST – Ep 2
I was forced to become a mother the night my mother left.
We cried and called for her to come back, but she never returned. That was when I realized we were truly alone—because my father never cared.
As we wept, he sat eating his dinner. Then he shouted at us to go inside, and we scrambled like scared kittens.
When we got to our rooms, it was too dark. There was no light, and I was naturally afraid of the dark. My brothers crawled toward me, and we held each other tightly.
I looked at the floor—and saw a snake. I froze, terrified. I tried to stay still, hoping to confuse the snake so it wouldn't know we were there. My brothers saw it too, and they began to cry.
But the snake didn't move. It just lay there, as if watching us.
I gathered my courage, picked up the broom by the wall, and threw it at the snake. Still, it didn't move.
That was when I dared to go closer—and realized it was just a rope. The same rope my mother used to tie up her clothes. The memory of her came rushing back, and I broke into tears again.
That whole night, my father never checked on us. I stayed awake, standing watch, unable to sleep in the suffocating darkness.
If my mother had been there, she would have gone out to buy a candle to light up the room knowing we can't sleep in the dark.
After that night, I cooked. I washed the plates. I did the laundry. I prepared my brothers for school, and I stayed back home cleaning the house.
One night, my father came home drunk and demanded his food. I went to get it, trembling with fear. When I dished it out for him, he stared at the soup for a long moment—then smashed the plate along with its contents against the wall.
I flinched at the sound. He stood up and gave me the heaviest slap I had ever felt—so hard I thought my jaw had dislocated.
"Don't you know how to cook?!" he barked, his voice loud and terrifying.
But it didn't end there. He pulled off his belt and began to flog me while shouting insults. "You're just like your mother! Stupid and clumsy!"
He beat me that night until my body was swollen and numb—especially my legs. Then he left and didn't return until morning. My brothers helped me to bed through the pain.
When he came back, he ordered us to prepare for school. I told him we hadn't paid our fees. He threw some money at me. That was how I resumed school—it was the only good thing he ever did for us.
Every small thing we did wrong—or whenever my brothers fought—he punished us like soldiers. He would make me kneel while carrying a heavy block. He made my brothers squat in the air for almost an hour, their legs shaking.
Sometimes, he locked them in a cupboard and took the key. I often had to remind him to let them out. He never cared unless it was convenient for him.
One year later, I—Nana—had had enough.
One night, when he returned home drunk again, I stood up to him.
"We are not animals! We are your children! Why are you treating us like we're the cause of your misery?!"
He transferred all his aggression to me. But instead of feeling pain from the beating, all I felt was hatred. A deep, burning hatred for the man who called himself my father.
After that night, I had a swollen eye, a bruised face, a broken leg, and blood in my eye—turning my right eye completely red.
Once, my youngest brother got very sick. He kept vomiting, and his body was burning with fever. I tried to tell my father, but he warned me not to come near him.
I ran to a neighbor, who gave me paracetamol, and I bathed my brother in cold water to reduce his temperature.
That night, after eating, my sick brother tried to take his plate to the kitchen, but he dropped it halfway and it broke.
We were terrified. I rushed to pick up the pieces before our father saw it, but when I looked up—there he was, standing there, like a ghost, glaring at us.
He grabbed Boy—my little brother—and made him kneel on stones smeared with Kiwi polish for over two hours while he sat drinking himself into a stupor.
I was furious. I stormed into the room and pulled Boy away. My brother was sick, and this man only cared about punishing him!
My father, stunned, tried to stop us, but he staggered and fell, a pathetic, drunken disgrace.
Boy was soaking wet, shivering, and silently crying as I led him out. My heart hardened.
But that night, Boy convulsed—and di*ed. I watched my own brother breathe his last, stretch, and die in my hands. I didn't understand what was happening. I was only a child—what do I know?
Before I could even understand what was happening or call the neighbors, he was gone. His teeth were clenched, his little body cold.
It was a dark, crushing night—I couldn't believe I had lost my sweet, loving brother.
My father didn't even realize his son was gone until the next day. The neighbors hurled insults at him as he picked Boy up like he was nothing and went to bury him.
I was shattered. Bitter. My hatred for my father grew beyond measure. My younger brother and I decided to stay strong—for each other.
We avoided our father as much as we could. We ate whatever we found, good or bad. We went to school, only to be sent back home for late payment.
We started doing menial jobs at construction sites, scraping money together to pay our fees when our father refused to.
I still cooked for him, left the food on the table, and locked the door to our room before he got home. I refused to let him near us anymore.
Then one Saturday afternoon—I saw her. My mother. Sneaking back to see us. She smiled brightly. But now—I hated her too.
If she had stayed, Boy would still be alive. She would have found a way to save him. She abandoned us. She made me become something I wasn't ready to be.
I was bitter. I was hurting. I told my brother, Sam, that we shouldn't go to her. She left us once—she'd do it again.
So we hid from her, even when she called our names... even when she begged to see our faces.
We hated our parents.
To be continued.
#fictionwriter
#weaverofwords
#tiana