Long ago

TW: This story contains themes of child physical and emotional abuse, psychological trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

1/02/2016

I am sipping coffee, sitting by my window. It’s warm, rich, and addictive. I glance out the window. There is no excessive crowd, no vehicle clatter.

There is a cold breeze around. The leaves are gently moving. I can hear the birds chirping. This is stillness itself.

The stillness is my company nowadays. I don’t like the mass. I have lived for a long time in the mass. One day, I decided to leave it.

Because in that mass, I was just surviving. Now, in solitude, with stillness as my company, I am alive. I am not just existing; I am living.

Today is Sunday. I am thinking of decluttering my cupboard—the one where I have kept some old belongings of mine.

So, let’s get started.

Decluttering is one of my favourite things to do. It’s when the restlessness settles in. I find peace in decluttering.

I am hoping to find some vintage things here, which is just an idiotic thought, because I am only 25 right now. My belongings in this cupboard are probably just some silly things I once liked.

I tie my hair into a tight bun. The first thing I see as soon as I open the cupboard is my pillow-my Hello Kitty pillow. The pillow I slept on for ten years. The pillow I cried on. The pillow I spent sleepless nights with, wondering about this and that. The pillow I slept on while talking to him. I move my hands over the pillow slowly. It still has the same warmth. I think I will probably sleep on it again tonight. I keep the pillow aside.

The next thing I see is a bracelet. A red and white chunky bracelet. My then best friend gave it to me. I feel a rush of norepinephrine and oxytocin. I feel nostalgic. I decide to wear it for the next two hours while I sort things out from this cupboard.

As soon as I wear it, my eyes land on something.

Something.

Something.

It’s my diary. A diary I wrote in for six years.

I suddenly feel hollow. Sunken.

Should I open it?

The diary looks old. It’s dusty and has lost its allure. The first thing I see after opening it is a sticker. A Winnie-the-Pooh sticker. Cute?

The first entry is an introduction of me. Things I used to like are listed here—or should I say, things I still like.

Blue colour, cocoa, stickers, books. Colours, music, etc. The list is two pages long. I will read that maybe later.

I flip the page. I start reading it-or living it.

21/02/2003

Dear Diary,

I think Ma is happy. Should I go and ask her whether she will buy me some clothes? I really need clothes.

Ma does not like buying me clothes. I used to think we are poor, so I did not ask for much. But Ma buys Reina so many clothes. Her wardrobe is filled with clothes. I saw it yesterday. There are all kinds of clothes. All colours. Dresses. Jeans. Tops.

I can’t wear Reina’s clothes. She is four years younger than me.

I think I should go ask Ma now.

I go running towards the hall.

“Ma, Ma…”

Ma’s face turns to stone. But she was smiling just now. She looks at me, questioning, asking me to proceed.

“Um, Ma, there is this event in school in two weeks. Can you buy me some clothes? Please?”

“No.”

“But why, Ma? I have no clothes.”

“No clothes? What are you wearing then? Leaves?”

“I only have three pairs of clothes, Ma. The clothes I can only wear at home. I cannot wear them outside.”

“Then don’t go outside.”

My eyes are getting teary. Why are my eyes getting teary?

“Why, Ma? Reina has so many clothes. You can buy me some too, right? Only one pair. Just one pair. Please? I need it for the event.”

“You are not going to any event. You are not getting any clothes.”

“Why don’t you buy me clothes, Ma? And why don’t you take me outside?”

Ma finally answers, but not with words. With her hand. On my right cheek. It hurts.

I start crying. I can’t control my tears.

“Why are you hitting me, Ma? Please don’t hit me, Ma.”

Another slap.

More cries. I cry loudly.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I start breathing heavily. Why am I breathing heavily? It hurts—on my cheeks, both of them.

“I hope you got the clothes you wanted.”

Ma leaves the hall.

22/02/2003

Ms. G gave me some clothes to wear. Yesterday she saw me crying in the park. I told her I don’t have the right clothes to attend the event.

She gave me one of her daughter’s old dresses. It’s really pretty. Blue in colour. Sky blue. I think it will look good on me. I am going to try it and show it to Ma. She won’t be angry now. She will love me.

Because she won’t have to spend any money on the clothes.

I change into the dress and go to Ma’s room. She is reading a book.

“Ma, Ma.”

Her face turns into stone again. I think she likes to play the statue game with me.

“Ma, see my dress. How does it look?”

Ma looks at me. She shows no reaction. Wait—I think she is getting angry. But why is she getting angry? I thought she would be joyous.

“Where did you get this from?”

“Ma, Ms. G—”

“You stole it? You thief. You stole it? Is that why I gave birth to you? To steal things? I am not the mother of a thief. Come here. Come here, you thief.”

She slaps me again. On the cheeks.

Also on the back.

But I have a wound on my back.

“Ma, stop, please. I did not steal it. Listen to me.”

“Now you are lying to me? How dare you lie to my face? How dare you lie to me when I am hitting you?”

“But, Ma, please listen to me. Please. I did not steal—”

“Stop lying. You witch. Liar and a thief. What else are you? I wish I did not give birth to you. I don’t know why I gave birth to you. Go to hell, witch. Go to hell. I should have rather died than give birth to you.”

She slaps me again.

She leaves the room. I feel relieved.

But I hear footsteps again. Ma is in the room. And Ma has a belt.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Ma hits me on my back. But I already have a wound—a wound from last week, when she hit me not with a belt, but with a stick.

I am getting teary-eyed again. I don’t want to cry. My head hurts for hours when I cry.

“Ma, please stop. I did not steal.”

“I know you are lying. I know you are lying. Tell me the truth. Tell me the tru—”

Before she can finish, the bell of our apartment rings.

“Sit here quietly and don’t make a sound. If you do, I will burn myself on the stove.”

She keeps the belt on the bed and leaves.

Who is there?

I hear a voice similar to Ms. G’s. I think it’s Ms. G. Should I hide the belt? But Ma might burn herself if I do that.

After five minutes, Ma comes back again.

“Ms. G came. She came to give this clip, which goes perfectly with the dress. Why did you not tell me that she gave this to you? I have been asking you for an hour.”

“I was trying to tell you, Ma, but you weren’t listening.”

“Oh! I wasn’t listening? You did not tell me the truth, and now you are making me the bad person here?”

Ma takes the belt in her hand again. She hits me again.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

This time on the legs.

Hands.

“You are trying to make me look like a monster, aren’t you?”

“No, Ma… stop… please…”

“I know. That’s what you are doing. You want me to die. I know. You want the neighbours to see me hitting you so I will go to jail, don’t you?”

“Stop, Ma. Please stop…”

My voice is getting lower. I think my leg is bleeding.

“Stop, Ma, please stop.”

“You are not attending any event.”

I don’t know how, but Ma actually decides to stop. I feel better.

My ringtone startles me.

“Hello?”

“Hello, are we speaking to Keesha Fow?”

“Yes, we are. Who am I speaking to?”

“Um, I am Zen from City Central Hospital. We are sorry to inform you that your mother, Amilia Fow, passed away today in a car accident.”

“Ms. Fow, can you hear me?”

“Oh yes, I can. Thank you for informing me.”

“Will you be visiting anytime soon before the post-martem?”

“Um, I don’t think I will be. But my sister, Reina Fow, will come.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

I am about to end the call when I hear her say, “Nowadays kids don’t even want to come to their parents’ funerals. Poor Amilia. She must have had a difficult life with such an ignorant daughter.”

After ending the call, I open the diary again.

There is no long entry for the next three months.

Just notes.

24/02/2003

Can you please listen to me just once, Ma?

Please listen to me.

Please listen to me.

Please hear me out.

Just once—

Hear me out.

25/02/2003

I’m sorry for being a bad daughter, Ma. But just once, listen to me, please?

26/02/2003

I am sorry for crying, Ma. But just once, listen to me.

I wish I could hate you, Ma.

28/02/2003

I hope one day I die. And when I do, you are there to see it, Ma.

1/03/2003

You hit me enough physically, Ma.

Don’t hit me emotionally, please.

There is a cloth in the diary. A blood-stained cloth. The blood is dried completely.

I can’t take it anymore. I am crying again. Why am I crying again?

I close the diary abruptly.

Ma is dead.

The monster is dead.

I am safe.

But my mother just died.

Ma died.

The monster died.

Did she ever love me?

Am I her daughter?

Will I become like her?

What was my fault?

The answers to my questions are also dead

.