My Mother's Final Scream | A Sad Story

That day, my mother died from the severe beatings of my father. My two younger brothers and I had squeezed ourselves into a corner of the house. At first, all three of us were screaming and shouting; our noise made our father, with a face full of rage and eyes like bowls of blood, charge toward us and shout loudly:

“Shut your mouths or I’ll kill all three of you!”

Terrified, our voices got stuck in our throats, and none of us dared say a word. We could only watch as our mother was beaten and heard her crying. She was being crushed under my father's punches and kicks, repeating over and over:

“I gave you all the money we had.”

“You’re lying! Tell me where the rest of the money is, or I’ll kill you right here in front of the kids!”

But my mother kept crying and swearing she had no more money. My father, seemingly blinded by rage, had no idea what he was doing. He let go of the hair he had clutched and yanked with all his strength, and then ran straight toward me. He grabbed me and threw me into the middle of the room.

I had always loved having long hair. I used to tell my mother I wanted to grow it long so I could let it fly in the wind and chase butterflies. My father dug his hand into the waves of hair I loved so much and cruelly pulled it. I trembled with fear, tears streaming down my face, unable to speak.

He shouted, “Give me the money or I’ll kill your daughter!”

My mother, with a body full of pain, dragged herself toward us. She could barely stand. Kneeling before my father, she begged,

“Please, let my daughter go. I gave you all the money I had. I have no more.”

Having my mother close gave me a little courage, and I managed to look into my father's face. As soon as our eyes met, memories of the days when he was kind flashed before me. Back then, he worked and was cheerful. We were all happy. I never remembered him hitting my mother.

But something changed. Joy and peace packed up and left our home, replaced by sorrow and grief. First, my father lost his job. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find work again. Uncle Khalid came over a few times and saw my father sitting silently, grief-stricken in a corner. One day, he said to him:

“Do you want to get rid of this sorrow and heartbreak?”

My father looked at him helplessly and said, “Yes, of course!”

Uncle Khalid was a harsh man, always beating his wife. That day, he took my father with him, and they didn’t return until very late. It was past midnight when my father came home, stumbling, speaking nonsense, and laughing loudly. After that night, he never returned to his old self. He got worse every day until he became a full-blown addict.

My mother’s screams snapped me out of my thoughts. I found myself again in that room soaked in grief. Her cries grew weaker and weaker until finally, there was no sound. The room fell into a heavy silence. Only the sound of someone breathing rapidly could be heard. I turned and saw my father strangling my mother. She lay still on the floor, her eyes fixed on a point.

Maybe she was looking into the distance.

Latifa Danish • June 30, 2025