I had thought my so-called dad's threats were just mere words as he would always say to mum every time they quarreled. I guess I underestimated him in that aspect.

I acted foolishly for the first time thinking a wicked man could say vain words.

It was on the third week after the incident, he and mum had just finished quarreling as they would always do and he rushed out angrily after glaring and cursing at me.

I stared at mum, she was bleeding from her lips, hands, and legs. I hate talking about the beatings she always received in each quarrel session because it hurt me more than anything so I often tend to term them all as quarrels.

"Help me." She muttered faintly, stretched her hand to me, and coughed out blood.

I wanted to ignore her because she caused it all to herself. How can anyone still stay in a marriage that caused her so much harm?

I wanted to shout at her to go to hell for all I care but then she's my mum and I'm so attached to her. I walked slowly to her and took her stretched-out hand and helped her stand.

She kept whimpering with each step she took that with each of them my hatred for the man I came out of his loins intensified.

I helped sit her down on the bed in her room and with the help of the first aid kit under her bed started treating her.

I am not a science student but due to my mum, I could handle everything in the kit and know all their functions. I can also go to the pharmacist and tell her the drugs I need instead of explaining the case to her because I've gotten used to the set of drugs I always give mum.

If I wanted to kill mum in those moments it would have been so possible. But I let her live.

I was still cleaning the injuries when the door to mum's room unlocked and dad walked in with two men behind him.

I knew who they were at just a glance but didn't want to believe it. They can't be.

As much as I tried to lie to myself that day everything became clear when I saw a handcuff in one of the men's hands. 'Will he arrest mum?' I asked myself.

I was not up to eighteen then so I was incredibly sure I wasn't the one getting arrested.

My sureness went down the drain when he pointed at me and told them to arrest me.

"Arrest me? For what charges?" I asked, wide-eyed but none of them said a word.

I had thought cops always say some words before placing a handcuff on anyone but they never did, they just handcuffed me and started dragging me away.

I didn't make any reaction, my expression was blank and devoid of any emotion as I followed them. Mum was running behind us, she kept yelling at them to leave me alone but none of them paid heed to her yells.

They led me to their car and pushed me in so violently. I still didn't react. I was as cool as ice.

Mum was just rushing out to the balcony when their driver took off. I was in between the two.

My so-called dad came in as I was dragged inside the police station, he had followed us immediately after we left, and as soon as he entered fired a case of murder.

That was all, with his influence and without investigation, I was locked up in juvenile detention under hard labor. How long I was going to stay wasn't even specified.

I was supposed to feel bad for entering such a state but I felt nothing as such, I only felt regret for underestimating him. If I had known, I would have been prepared and would have somehow prevented it. I regretted that throughout my stay in detention and even now.

In those days, mum's presence never lacked, she was always with me; always visited me with food, fruits, and snacks.

It got to a point where it felt like we were together in the enclosure. I don't know how she managed to get it done but she visited me more than thrice every day.

My love for her got to its peak in those moments and we both parted ways at times with tears in her eyes. I never cried. Don't even think I have tears in my eyes.

She kept promising every day that she would get me out and she did fulfill her words although it took her two years to.

The fact that she had compassion for the same person that killed her son made it so interesting. I loved the feeling. Still do.

I saw more than hell– saw things I never want to talk about in those years and yet survived it all.

Most of the kids in there called me the same thing my so-called dad used to call me. 'Witch.'

I get into our house and slowly walk to their bedroom when it feels like the noise has died down to see my so-called dad gripping my mum's neck so hard as if he wants to strangle her to death or perhaps he does want to.

His action doesn't surprise me one bit. I'm used to seeing such scenes. It's like an everyday occurrence.

Mum is gasping, trembling, and struggling.

Her eyeballs are aloft and her legs are kicking the open air. The panting of her heart is heavy. I can hear it so well as if it is mine.

She strives to speak but can't, mucus is dribbling out of her nose, her eyes are filled with tears and her wrists are throbbing. She's suddenly as pale as a white sheet of paper.

My eyes darken as I realize what is about to happen to her and not saying a word, I turn and walk out.

I get to the kitchen and walk straight to where I know will give out what will end it all...

I search through the rack filled with different types of knives and pick up the sharpest among all.

I stare at it for a while, smile gratefully for having such sweet equipment, and with slow steady steps walk out.