Abuse

He had abused her so many times.
He was supposed to be her father. This man, the one with the heavy overcoat, the greased back black hair, the long and pointed nose, those black diamond eyes — this was her father. The father that abused her.
Alcohol took the better of him, and countless nights he comes home to find the door to his bedroom — usually with his wife in it — locked, he in a furious state; goes in search of something else to beat up and hurt.
Down the corridor, to find his daughter Ana. Little Ana, only ten years old, long silky black hair, the big eyes of innocence. Little Ana, in her room, playing.
This is how he finds her, playing.
And so in a drunken stupor, he makes a grab for her. Ana, oblivious to what is about to happen next, believes he wants to cuddle her, and so attempts to embrace him.
But no.
He has hold of her. He shakes, and he throws her, against the wall. She hits it square on with as much force as a man can muster, and falls to the floor. She begins whimpering and crying, her eyes seep tears.
He advances on her, and with his shiny shoes, begins kicking at her stomach, hard and fast, stupidly oblivious to what he is doing, his mind addled, but regardless: he is abusing his daughter.
His Ana.
She goes into a foetal position, and grasps her head, trying to curl up in a little ball like a cat: whimpering, shaking, crying, crying for mother in the bedroom down the corridor. But mother doesn’t come to protect her daughter. Mother is locking herself away, frightened her husband will turn on her as well.

The Father’s addiction for alcohol does not stop and has been running riot ever since. The abuse does not stop. Mother and daughter are bloodied daily. When Ana is asked in the school about her bruises, about her many trips to the hospital, about all the bandages — she cannot answer, for she is embarrassed. Ana pleads to mother to move out, to get away from father. “Daddy isn’t daddy anymore! I want to go!” she once cried to mother when she couldn’t take it any longer. But they couldn’t. He would find them, he has threatened this on countless occasions, when drunk and sober. Why not go to the police; you may ask? They didn’t think of that.
So they took matter into their own hands.

* * *

Ana examined the countless bruises on her arms, and then looked at her legs, and her stomach. Bandages in some places, scars in others. Her body was damaged permanently. Those large eyes were always stained red with crying. Her clothes, matted and torn from abuse. Her life torn from abuse.
She glanced out of her door and could see mothers room, mothers dangling feet. She told Ana to do the same, and Ana knew how to do it.
Ana stood up from her bed and climbed onto the chair. Mother said it would be okay, it would be easy. Quick. Painless.
She grabbed the room tied to the ceiling, and stroked it down to the noose,then putting it over her neck and then tightening out. The room was somewhat comforting to her. This is the thing which can take away all the problems, all the abuse, and take me to a better world. School always told her about a place called heaven. Maybe Ana will go there?
Ana’s heart was pounding fast, her brain full of concern. What if it hurt? What if I didn’t go to heaven?
Ana could imagine her mother, “just get it over with!” she would snap. And so Ana did get it over with, she jumped of the chair and it fall out of her reach.
She hung, the only way to get away from father.

* * *

Father come home drunk again, and found his wife dead.

He still beat her, falling asleep in a daze after doing so, whilst his wife hung, whilst his daughter hung.