I saw my father murdered Mother. Welcome to my world.
My name is Nguyen Thi My Kieu. I was born and raised in Dong Thap, Vietnam. A city south of Ho Chi Minh; the Mekong Delta. I had a large family: 6 boys and I, the only girl, oldest.
I lived in a wooden shed, at the end of Dong Muoi Market, next to the community’s dumb site. The smell of human waste complimented such living accommodation. The house held together by bamboo and during monsoon season it leaked, forming mud puddle, for which we used as drinking water.
My meals, more than often not, consisted of porridge to spread the meager rice that was available in our home. The clothes on my back had more colourful stitches that put the United Nations’s flag to shame. And slippers was a luxury that I couldn’t afford, so my feet covered mostly in mud or blood.
To make ends meet, my mother, a 5’1, boney, petite of a figure, worked nights and days in the neighbour’s field to provide food and shelter, but most importantly, to support the gambling and drinking habits of a man she called husband. In returns for her hard work, he thanked her with broken nose, and bloody eyes.
He treated her like she was some kind of mad dog. Why? I guessed because we broke the natural law for being poor. He did it with passion and vigor, for the neighbour to hear. Which I was sure many did, because I heard friends talked about it at school the next day. He did with love he said. Yes! Love, that was what he announced whenever he landed a punch to her face.
“I love you that is why I must show you” He screamed, “you made me do this.”
He called her with names that no mother wanted their children to hear. When he battered her. She cried. He slammed her face into the wall, shattered her teeth. Bloody lips. She begged, he kicked her like a ball, cracked her ribs. Sent her over next to us, huddle in the corner, cried our eyes out. Mother unable to breath. She screamed out loud at nights during father’s many rant, hoping for help.
No one bothered. People were too busy watching TV. One must guessed, looking at television must be very important than to save lives, or could it be that small penis equal small gut?
Until one day Mother’s wailed finally lost in darkness. It frightened the cow. Shook the tree. But no person, not a single soul tried to intervene. Small package, right?
Thus that was how Mother died – Father stabbed her with a kitchen knife in the chest. He sat on top of her tiny body, repeatedly thrusted the weapon into her bust like a wild animal until the manliness gone out of him. Mother’s lay motionless, blood painted the ground red. Scream turned to sobs. The room reeked of rice wine. All because she had no money to give him. Which was true. The only thing we had was, dirt and fear.
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