I thought I’d handled the issue well. You see, I borrowed a couple thousands, but I had plans to regain the money and return it, it was meant to be a simple loan. Simple my ass. Because once a bitch named interest and her friend loan began working hand-in-hand, the couple thousands, started to accumulate. Thousands turned into more thousands, and if I didn’t pay up this week, it’d turn into a million. And who else to tell me this bitter sweet news other than my father. Ah! My good old father. The bastard who’d get a kick at praying on helpless women, and his own son, the bastard who’d steal money and then gamble it all away, leaving his “family” starving, the bastard who appeared in my office in the finest suit on Monday to tell me, with a smug smile that the company I owed this loan to was now his, and that the interest was increasing. The bastard, that not only crippled his child emotionally when he was 15 but was ready to cripple his child again, financially at 36.
I could still remember the way mother stared at me from time-to-time, looking at me like she hated me. Why? Because I was ‘blessed’, as what many women would refer to it as, with chestnut hair and dark brown eyes. The things that drew ladies closer made my mum stare at me like I was the one who’d given her the black eye, or swollen lip, or cuts and bruises on her body. I’d grown to hate him for what he did, what he made us. Dysfunctional.
I promised I wouldn’t let him win, she cried in my arms that night, and I promised, if ever there was a chance to prove my strength, my purpose, my protection towards my mother, I’d prove he won’t win; and I’ll be damned by God if I let him win again.
So let this shit begin.