It’s the year 1995. My parents are in the kitchen. I don’t know what they’re saying to each other, but I know it’s bad. I don’t understand the fierce storm of words coming out of my father’s mouth, nor do I understand why my mother’s face is buried in her hands, why she’s shaking uncontrollably.
I’m sitting in my high chair, forgotten. I’m not the type of baby who cries when he’s not having attention from his mother; I just sit there and stare. Not much is going through my head at this stage; I’m just staring. Being a two-year-old baby, I don’t understand much of what my parents say in general. The only word I could understand was my name being used here and there.
I see my dad raise his hand, and usually when he looks at me ominously and raises his hand, it means I get a small smack. At this moment I scream in my high chair, because I know that Daddy is going to give my mummy a smack. Tears start pouring down my chubby little cheeks and I bawl at the top of my lungs. My parents both jolt round and look at me as though I had just appeared out of thin air. My mother puts her hands under my armpits and pulls me out of my high chair, hugging me tightly. My arms automatically lock round her neck, as they did whenever she picked me up.
‘There, there, darling.’ It is always so comforting to hear my mother talk. This is one of the few things I can understand, because my mother says it all the time whenever I am sad.
My daddy storms out of the room and my mother sighs. She puts me back in my high chair, and says ‘I’ll make you a bottle of milk, baby,’ before bustling around the kitchen, spooning white powder into a water and mixing it up in my baby bottle, and heating it up in the microwave. She gives the bottle to me and I drink a little. She stands in front of me, looking down at me and smiling.
‘Mama,’ I say slowly, my large, brown, orb-like eyes staring up into her green watery ones. ‘Dada — dada — hay you?’
Mummy looks confused. ‘Daddy hate me? No, Daddy doesn’t hate me. It’s okay, darling, it’s all okay.’
‘Mama, Dada hay you!’ I say, my voice rising a tiny bit.
My mother doesn’t reply; instead she ruffles my soft golden curls and turns around, reaching for yellow rubber gloves. ‘No, darling. Daddy doesn’t hate me.’ next update
note: i've added 'next update' links to the end of each update so you can easily get to the next part of the story without having to scroll trying to find it.. Just thought i'd make life easier for anyone who actually wants to read this
oh and comments would be great, because this is a story i actually want to finish, and if i finish it i may make a cover for it, and perhaps even a sequel. So it would be great if this is kept alive so i can, y'know, finish it