Jealous Gore And The Victim

"What is it now?" Hauwa's voice, a razor's edge slicing through the kitchen's humid stillness, grated against my already frayed nerves. Her hands, clasped tight, trembled with a barely contained fury, her eyes wide and glittering. "Why are you calling me again? Can't you let me breathe? All the time, Salama! Salama! Salama! Am I the only person on this Earth?!"

I stood frozen, a half-peeled yam forgotten in my hand, the knife still clutched tight. My seventeen years had been a relentless exercise in invisibility, a desperate attempt to shrink myself enough to avoid the constant barrage. But something shifted within me, a slow, hot burn.

Hauwa, my elder sister, took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss, though the indignation still tightened her jaw. "You think you've grown breasts and a curvy shape gives you the right to be rude? I'll stand up to you in this house, and nothing will happen. At heart, I'm very easygoing and kind, but you haven't been 'on fire' lately, which is why you're acting so foolishly." The veiled threat hung heavy, a familiar weight in the air.

The insistent thumping of my mother's feet on the worn kitchen tiles preceded her, her face a storm cloud. "What's going on? Why all the noise?" The unexpected proximity made me jump, a gasp catching in my throat.

Hauwa, quick as a viper, darted her eyes towards Mom, her composure shifting from aggressive to feigned vulnerability in an instant. "This pathetic coward is talking back just because I asked her to help me pull this shelf to search underneath it. Maybe the card fell under there, but she just kept yelling at me with silly questions!" Her voice was laced with a sickly sweetness that made my stomach churn.

Before I could even formulate a denial, a searing pain exploded across my cheek. Mom's open palm struck with a force that sent my head snapping sideways, a dull throb blooming instantly. "I will finish you in this house," she hissed, her eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity I knew well. "You must be stupid to play rudeness in my house; you can't assail with that here. I will kill you with my bare hands."

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut, but a fire, dormant for so long, flared in my chest. My voice, when it came, was a brittle tremor, yet it held a defiance I hadn't known I possessed. "Oh yes, I'm sure you gave birth to both of us," I began, each word a desperate plea for recognition. "I am not an outcast, nor have I killed anyone. There are only two things in life: to live and to die, and I'm on the verge of the latter. I've been serving you all my life like a slave in my father's house. None of my siblings have ever supported me, or even smelled what I've been going through. You asked me to cook, and I was doing it, and she's calling me to come and support her while others are inside doing nothing. Why?! How?! What should I do to please you all?!" My voice cracked, raw with years of suppressed anguish. "I've been receiving all sorts of bullying since I was a little girl. I'm not ignorant anymore, nor am I so stupid not to know my rights. I've been patient, trying to ease through this 'art of war,' but this... this is unprofessional. I get beaten every day for no reason?!"

My mother's eyes, wide with disbelief at my unprecedented defiance, narrowed to slits. Her hand shot out, grabbing a stray broom handle, while Hauwa, with sickening zeal, snatched up a coiled cable wire. Together, they descended, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and furious blows. The stick whistled, the wire lashed, each strike a fresh burst of pain across my body.

"Don't end it!" I screamed, the words ripped from my lungs, a strange, delirious joy mingling with the agony. "Don't stop beating me until I'm docked beneath the ground! You have to put me to rest for your peace! If not, I will live in your sight, successfully tormenting your happiness!"

The wildness in their eyes, the relentless flailing, finally faltered. I crumpled to the floor, a heap of bruised flesh and bleeding gashes, my breath tearing raggedly from my chest like a dying bellows. The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by my desperate, shallow gasps. They stood frozen, a flicker of fear finally dawning in their eyes before they turned and fled, leaving me a crumpled, pathetic mess on the cold kitchen floor.

The pain was a dull ache, a constant companion, but a strange sense of victory bloomed in my chest. It had been my bravest moment, and despite the blood seeping into the worn linoleum, I loved the outcome. The downtrodden spirit within me, the 'poor devil' I had become, was finally stirring, preparing for a fight. Should I run away? Should I stay? Should I relocate? Questions hammered at my skull, each one a desperate beat of a new, uncertain drum.

This house, it had never felt like home. A place of forced cohabitation, yes, but never a haven. Most days, a profound sense of not belonging settled over me, chilling me to the bone. Is she truly my mother? Are these truly my siblings? The questions were a constant, nagging refrain. The weight of it all, the endless cycle of criticism and cruelty, often pushed me to the brink. Suicide, a dark, alluring whisper, sometimes seemed the only escape. Only Dad, his infrequent presence a fleeting warmth, kept the thought at bay. But how could I burden him with the truth? The fear of shattering the fragile illusion of our family, of losing him too, kept my lips sealed.

My heart ached with a paradox: I loved my mother fiercely, yet she detested me with an intensity that burned. I'd watch her, a wistful pang in my chest, as she laughed freely with my siblings, sharing secrets and easy camaraderie. But the moment her gaze found me, a scowl would twist her features, a silent condemnation if I dared to rest, if I dared to simply exist without purpose. She craved my usefulness, yet every effort I poured into the family, every chore completed, every meal cooked, was met with a chilling indifference, a silent dismissal. Nothing I did was ever enough, nothing ever satisfied her.

My tears, bitter and silent, often stained my pillow in the lonely hours of the night. I was dying inside, my spirit withered, my strength sapped. My gods are bent, I'd think, a frantic, meaningless prayer. I was drawing to an end, a blank wall ahead. I'd spend nights without eating her meals, often because she deliberately starved me, leaving no plate for me, or because the thought of eating food prepared by hands that inflicted such pain turned my stomach. Instead, I'd scavenge, finding scraps to quiet the gnawing hunger, avoiding the house's poisoned sustenance. Still, I strove for perfection in every task, meticulously, tirelessly. I refused to give them any legitimate reason for their cruelty, always respectful, always diligent. Yet, the blows kept coming, a slow, steady erosion of my soul.

It wasn't fair. The unfairness, a bitter taste in my mouth, had finally solidified into an undeniable truth. Here I was, in the sterile anonymity of a mall, seeking escape, trying to construct an invisible wall, a fortress against the worldwide dollhouse of my life. Ten years. Ten long years this had been my reality. I was barely six when the cold truth dawned: my mother treated me differently, an anomaly among my siblings. I was a fixture in this house, a servant masquerading as a daughter. The chores were mine, the errands mine, the cooking mine, the cleaning mine. And still, I remained the most hated being under my father's roof. No time for myself, only an endless cycle of toil, devoid of praise, showered only with demotivation and bullying. It was a suffocating routine, one I'd grown accustomed to, a relentless tide that would, I believed, prevail until tomorrow, until forever.

My tireless efforts, my ceaseless striving to please her, to evoke even a flicker of warmth, always backfired. She would seize upon the smallest perceived transgression, turning it into an excuse for a fresh assault. Even when Dad was around, trying to offer me a shred of love or care, she'd turn her fury on him, arguments erupting, always because of me.

My siblings made no secret of their passionate detestation. I often wondered what monstrous crime I had committed to deserve such universal scorn. I rarely spoke, for my words were met with silence, my presence ignored. Any interaction was purely transactional, a reluctant acknowledgment of my usefulness. Friends at school were a luxury I couldn't afford, a reflection of the isolation cultivated within these walls. Outside, inside, direct or indirect, the only consistent human connection I had was with my father.

The mental wounds festered, a constant ache of frustration and depression. At fifteen, a defiant spark ignited within me. I started to learn to fight back, to conquer the crippling fear, though the path was impossibly steep. Then, last December, a crushing illness descended. I hid it, clinging to a desperate need to appear strong, to keep pace with the endless demands of the house, to maintain the facade of order and obedience. But one day, the facade cracked. While cooking, fatigue overwhelmed me, the world spun, and I collapsed. My mother, seeing my slumped form, merely scoffed, convinced I was faking illness to shirk my duties. The bullying continued, her insults a bitter rain on my unconscious form.

But fate, for once, intervened. My father, newly arrived home, heard her venomous words. A primal roar tore from his throat as he rushed into the kitchen. He shoved my mother aside, his face a mask of furious concern. She, in turn, stalked out, disdain heavy in her every step. Dad lifted me, his arms a safe harbor, and carried me to his car, rushing me to the nearest hospital.

I recovered the next day, but the silence from my family was deafening. No sibling visited, no mother cared to inquire. My father's face, etched with a deepening bitterness, betrayed his growing unease. He began to question me, gently at first, then with a fierce determination: about my mother, my siblings, my health, the happenings in his absence, the silent torment I'd endured. I withheld the worst of it, knowing his temper, his fierce protectiveness. Yet, their very actions, their continued indifference, spoke volumes. He murmured inarticulately, a low rumble of suppressed rage, rising unsteadily, ready to confront them. But I pleaded with him, urging wisdom over fury, and he relented, the storm within him slowly abating. He drove me home in a heavy, peaceful silence.

Days later, the entire family was summoned. Dad's voice, usually warm, was laced with an uncharacteristic steel. "Lastly," he declared, his gaze sweeping over us, lingering on my mother and siblings, "nobody should dare mess with Salama in my house."

Then, a revelation that both brought a surge of hope and ignited a deeper resentment in their hearts. "I've tendered a transfer letter to return home," he announced, his voice softer now, but resolute. "I can look after my family, to support everyone irrespective. So I will need your cooperation."

This simple act, born of love and protection, twisted into another weapon against me. Their eyes burned with a fresh, venomous hatred. The idea that Dad loved me more, that he would uproot his life for me, was a bitter poison they were forced to swallow. The transfer was a haunting specter, a testament to my unexpected victory, and they had no choice but to accept it.

An evil heart never ceases its machinations. Their vileness, a hydra with many heads, found a new strategy: manipulation, subtle and insidious, designed to paint me in the darkest shades. Their aim was simple: to turn Dad against me, to shatter the last bastion of my protection through elaborate setups and whispered accusations. But the Great God, ever watchful, always saw the righteous through. My father, attuned to the undercurrents of his own home, understood their insidious plots. His trust in me, unwavering, became my shield.

They failed. I was winning, inch by agonizing inch, and their competition, their festering jealousy, bore them nothing but agony. Things got better, yes, but their plots, spun in the darkest corners, still cast a chilling shadow over my days. I became more prayerful, more cautious, seeking wisdom and principles to navigate the treacherous waters of our fractured family.

At times, I despised myself for my past passivity, for allowing myself to be taken for granted, to be a puppet danced to their grotesque tune, all under my father's roof. But Grandma's whispers, her quiet strength, had sustained me through the toughest periods. Patience, wisdom, vigilance, carefulness, peace. Her teachings became my anchor. I clung to truth and faithfulness, no matter how bleak the outlook, and it kept me pushing forward, however slowly.

These were the embers that fueled my resilience, a quiet burning conviction that these trials were merely stepping stones to a greater gain. I held on strong, refusing to surrender to their hatred, determined to fulfill the unspoken promise of my own being.

It was only when my father finally settled back home, truly home, that the full, chilling truth of my mother and siblings' intense hatred unfurled. My mother despised me with a visceral, consuming passion because I was a living reflection of my paternal grandmother – a woman she harbored a deep, unknown grudge against. My siblings, in turn, resented me for Dad's obvious affection, and because, in their eyes, I was simply more intelligent.

But was it my fault? Was it my crime?

My father loved me with a fierce, unwavering devotion, a deep reservoir of genuine affection. He loved his own mother immensely, and I, her spitting image, was a constant reminder of that love. He was my unwavering champion, my number one fan. His words were always kind, laced with respect, honor, and a tenderness that made me feel like the sole, fortunate recipient of his boundless affection. He brimmed with such gentle care, it often felt as if I were the only person on Earth blessed with such a father.

Perhaps it was his profound love for his mother that influenced his demeanor toward me, becoming the very catalyst for my family's detestation and jealousy. My mother could unleash a beating for no reason, twist my life into a living hell, corner me in a pit of torment, and cast me into the depths of pain, all fueled by her hatred for my paternal grandmother. Or perhaps it was something else entirely, a shadow I couldn't quite grasp.

Yes, I was the most intelligent. I was the most beautiful. Standing at 5'7", my skin a warm, light brown chocolate, my figure curving with a maturity that belied my sixteen years. Everyone outside the confines of my home – family friends, extended relatives – they all offered me smiles and warmth. And for these very reasons, their hearts inside our house blazed with a hateful, consuming flame.

To my mother, I was the "ugly witch," the "devilish child" who tormented her life, the "hypocrite" who hounded her, the "ugliest being." I saw the torment in her eyes when she looked at me, her gaze rating me from zero to nothing. I was the person who soured her every moment, the most disgusting being she hated to see, the nightmare that haunted her dreams, the beast that hounded her.

My siblings couldn't even pretend. Their insecurity was a raw, exposed wound they projected onto me. Anger simmered in their chests, pain and anguish festered as I continued to exist in their nest. They wished me eliminated, wished I would simply cease to be, but a fortunate spirit, a resilience deep within me, denied them that bitter satisfaction.

Then came the shopping trip, another dagger in their already wounded pride. Dad insisted I sit in the front with him. My mother, her face a thundercloud, flatly refused to join us. "On your suit, baby," Dad simply said, a gentle prod that carried a finality. He started the car. We left without her.

My siblings sat silently in the back, stiff with awkwardness, struggling with the awful, agonizing sight of my father gushing with laughter and easy jokes, sharing lighthearted moments with me, his favorite. I wore a radiant smile, a look of pure glee, knowing their pain, yet unable to dim my own quiet joy.