Sister's Lullaby

Warning: Domestic Abuse

I glanced at our house with only one room. The table was full of Father's tools and Mother's sewing kit. The floor was clean, there were no signs of dust and dirt. Our lightbulb would always flicker at night but Mother made me see it as a star just within our reach. A window by the bed had grandmother's drapes, it was the only decoration our little house has. Mother's folded clothes were stacked at the end of the bed, and Father's beloved family picture was the highlight of our small house.

I lived by Father's words, "Dear one, you should only know how to smile. Know that your smiles can brighten up my direful day," so I did. The same smile I did when we took our family picture. I smiled every time Father came home from work and watched him dance with Mother. We didn't own a radio to play music yet Father's whistles and Mother's giggles were the best music I've ever heard.

I sang to my sister who chuckled along with the simple music our parents created.

"Smile sweetly, dear one,

As sweet as this moment,

That I wish could last forever."

We were satisfied with our small house. I helped Mother with chores as Father went to work and buy us food to eat. We didn't have much but we were happy. Father would come home, ask me where Mother was and he would happily dance with her. Yes, this is the only life I needed.

But something changed one day when Father asked where Mother was. He heaved a long and heavy sigh as he massaged his temples. He held a piece of paper that he was trying so hard not to crumple, and when Mother read it she sat helplessly on our clean floor. They were speaking so softly that I could not hear what made Mother sit on the floor and cry while Father hugged her. Then Father looked in my direction, he gave me a small smile before he went out while Mother was still sobbing on the floor.

Days passed since Father went home with a smile on his face. Now he'd often sit tiredly in the dining room and silently eat Mother's cooked meal. One day he came home, rather than his work bag, he carried a bottle of what seemed to be liquor. I heard Mother talk to him in a tone I've never heard her do before. Our table was full of bottles of liquor that Father took home and Mother pointed to it as she talked to him.

I watched in bewilderment as my parents danced with different expressions on their faces and weird, heavy steps. Father held Mother by her wrist, not her hand. His other hand wasn't on her waist, but on her cheeks, slightly squeezing it. I wanted to ask if they were still dancing, but was startled when Father's voice rose.

I silently sang to my sister, who cried as our Father's voice got louder.

"Hush now, dear one.

Everything is fine.

You'll hear the music again,

And this will be gone."

But it was all just wishful thinking as I watched how the lightbulb gave out its last light. It was no longer the star within our reach as Mother said. Father told me not to be scared when he gave me every reason to be. He raised his hand, my dear Mother's cries, the sound of Father's hand hitting Mother, the window glass shattering as Mother avoided every object Father threw at her, my sister silently sleeping as I embraced her so she wouldn't witness the harmful dance of our parents. I watched Mother cover her wet face with hands full of bruises and Father drink liquor as if it was water. This became the horrid music that replaced Father's whistles and Mother's giggles.

I sang to my sister as Mother screamed with every hit of Father's hand.

"When did the music turn into screaming?

Is this what they wanted?

Seeing bloody fists and horrified faces?

Someone tell me, am I dreaming?"

Mother came to me when Father left, she was smiling despite the bruises and dried tears on her face. She told me she was sorry; I didn't know what it was she was asking forgiveness for. I watched her take her folded clothes at the end of the bed but I couldn't ask why she was moving so fast, as if someone was chasing after her.

I gained the courage to ask her when she paused to look at Father's beloved treasure, our family picture that highlights our small house. As I was about to open my mouth to ask her, Mother took a knife from the kitchen and started to tear it apart.

"Mother, no!" I screamed, but she still continued to tear Father's beloved treasure.

Our family picture that captured our smiling faces was torn apart by the same hand that Father swore to protect. Our family was torn apart by the same people who swore that we'll make it through this hellish reality we live in.

Father came home with a bottle in his hand. He asked for Mother, but I refused to answer. I felt the cold sweat drip down my nape when he looked at his beloved family picture that was torn by Mother before she left.

He asked once again, "Where is your Mother?" And again, I refused to answer.

I felt the sharp pain on my scalp as he yanked it and asked the same question over and over again: "Where is your Mother?" I shook my head and shut my eyes tightly when I saw him raise his fist.

Father left just after my body became numb. Like what happened with Mother, I couldn't ask where he was going. I crawled towards my sister's crib and smiled when I saw her looking at me.

I held her hand and silently cried as I try to make her laugh but she was just looking at me as if she knew what happened. My bruises from Father's hand started pulsing. I didn't feel pain, but I knew it was hot. I felt the heat all throughout my body. In contrast, my sister's hand was cold.

I sang to her, my voice cracked as I muffled my cries.

"Sleep deeply, dear one.

Who knows when will this pass,

Or how did it even start?

Sleep through this cold night.

I'll be here by your side."

I glanced at our house with only one room. The table was full of Father's empty bottles and Mother's untouched food. Our floor that used to be clean was now full of dust and dirt. The window was already broken to pieces, like how we were. The only decoration we had, grandmother's drapes, fell to the floor, garnering dust and shards from our broken window. Mother's clothes were no longer at the end of the bed, and Father's beloved family picture was torn apart.

I turned to my sister. Her small face was so thin, I couldn't see the plump flesh I'd seen when I first saw her. Her small hand lost its grip on my finger, but I still held it then bit my lip.

I sang to her.

But my throat hurts. No words came out of my mouth. I thought I had to let go of my sister so she wouldn't feel my freezing hands but I still held her tightly. Because I knew the cold body of my sweet little sister wouldn't mind.