Like Father

Michael Ordia
Dec 2 2020 - 1 min read

The first time I saw mother’s eyes swollen like an overripe avocado, her skin accommodated colours from pain, her body revealed scars from severe whipping. She told me that she was fine. She told me it was a way of love; the way father showed love. Several times I witnessed father whip her, slam her head on walls and objects, call her names and kick her. She would weep, wipe the blood off her mouth and arrange the house.
One day father pushed her down the stairs. Mother laid there; motionlessly; staring into nothing. We mourned mother. Father said she didn’t love him enough, if her love was strong enough she would have survived the fall.
Now I stare at Temi, my second girlfriend this year, my second ex this year. I assess her body; the scars of love I inflicted with my belt. The bruises of affection I fed her face with my clenched fist. I stare at her motionless body and I wonder why she didn’t love me enough. Why didn’t they love me enough? Why was their love so weak? When will I find true love?