The Victim

David took a step back, as broken pieces of the glass vase bulleted across the kitchen door, and fell on the floor of the hall. He was not sure if he was quiet enough, but hoped his abrupt steps had been boycotted behind his mother’s scream, and his father’s roar. There was nothing unusual about the shouts and the beating anymore. It had become the story of every night lately. But never had his father been this monstrous before, never this cruel. Had he not given a second thought before dragging the glass vase across her face? Sharper than those dripping edges, were the wounds engraved on David’s heart that night.

The family had seen better times. His father had not been like this before. He had been a respected man before the war, had a small store where he sold hand-made sculptures, by carving wood. In fact, he had been the benchmark among sculptors in the village. Everyone admired his work, and he too had pride in it. However, no one was hurt more than he was, when the first bomb in the village fell on his shop, and the fire destroyed all his work and money. That had not been all. David’s father was also a freedom fighter in the war. He stood with many other brave souls to defend his village, and his family. He paid for their victory with an arm. He could still move it, but it became impossible to do heavy work with his left arm. Thus, he had no other option, but to give up his passion. He gave up carving, and that punched a hole in his heart. He had to carry this consequence of war as a burden, for the rest of his life. He was a victim of war, and at the end, he had nothing. That was when he picked p the habit of drinking. He started taking out the grudges against the war on his family, his wife and David.

David hid under the staircase, as his father went out the main gate. He waited till he heard the footsteps fade, then he walked to the kitchen. His mother’s face was covered with blood. Her tears made the vibrant red blood look pale. Like every other night, without any reason, she was victimised to his rage. David treated her wounds, washing away the blood with tears in his eyes. But she refused to rest till she cleaned up the mess on the floor. She never blamed David’s father.

David’s father returned after midnight. The roaring and screaming started again. This time it was more intense. David heard crockeries break, and slams on doors and walls. Finally, there was a gun shot. It seemed like the world mourned at her loss. Everything turned quiet. When David went downstairs, the whole village had already gathered up in their house. He saw his father tied to the pillar of the staircase. And on the once-spotless floor and carpet, lay his mother. Dead. His right of having a mother, a simple family, was ceased. The completeness of the family was torn and burned down, and he remained the successor of all the pain passed down.broken_glass_s

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