Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

You can’t call that man a father, I lost my father the day my sister was born. He blamed her for the death of our mother. A woman who used her dying breaths to bear her second child. The pain drowned him, it grew and evolved to hate.
We do not celebrate Judith’s birthday, we mourn our mother that day. We spend her birthdays praying, father leads with supplications; begging God to trade his daughter’s life for that of his wife.
Judith’s light skin told tales of whips. We tremble anytime father returned drunk. He would beat and curse Judith, if I beg he would beat me too.
“Do you think mom hates me too?” She would ask and whimper. “She loves you.” I would reply all the time.
On Christmas Eve, fifteen years since mom left, we were to honour her. Father got furious because Judith baked a cake for her fifteenth birthday. Her first attempt in baking a cake, her first attempt to celebrate the day she was born. Father’s loathe glowed in his eyes, he whipped her and rained curses, he slammed her head on the wall severally and I could tell that he would kill her.
My body trembled, I ran to the kitchen to pick a knife. I had to protect my sister, it was time to face my father. I ran to the living room and found Judith holding the knife intended for cutting the cake, she pointed it at father with her quivering hands. “Kill me like you killed my wife! Kill me you devil!” He whipped her again, she screamed and tried to drive it through his chest.
Blinded by rage, father caught her hand and stabbed her. I hadn’t moved at all, I couldn’t. I, the big brother who took a knife to protect his sister. I watched her die because I was too timid to move. I ran to Judith as she was laid in the pool of her blood. “I’m going to meet mom.”

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