Breaking Point

" are a v...v...very stupid child". "How dare you talk back at me? "In my own house?!! "I don't blame you; this belt I'm using is not flogging you very well." Thwack...thwack.

My body has long ago blocked the pain of his belts. The only thing I feel is the teary stares of my four-year-old brother, Bomboy. He is too young to watch this. As if by telepathy, he screams. "I don tire." "Sense needs to be flogged into your bodies." In three long strides, Uncle John reaches the dark corner of the firewood kitchen where Bomboy is and begins to kick him repeatedly with his heavy-duty combat boots.

Bomboy's screams turn to wails, and my heart breaks. I sit there helplessly, knowing that even with all the noise coming from the house, the "caring" neighbors we have will do absolutely nothing.

From the corner of my eyes, I see Uncle John, just in time, trying to force Bomboy outside into the cold. At that very moment, something in me snaps. Blinding rage from nowhere hits me, and I pick up the first thing my hand touches, charging madly at Uncle John, hitting him wherever I can. Into each blow, I pour all my emotions- anger at whoever abandoned us with this drunk, pent-up rage from the three years of physical and emotional abuse, hatred for the man I call my uncle, and finally, emptiness because I am drained.

Tired and hungry, I stop, only for me to see Uncle John with multiple stab wounds from an ogogoro bottle and Bomboy looking at me with a faraway, glazed look. There is no time to be shocked at my actions. I quickly scooped up Bomboy and ran away with a few useful things I could find. I dare not look back because I may falter in my resolve to run away from the only place I know. No more abuse; I have reached my breaking point.

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