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Abstract

y daughter) to not leave her alone with her dad. My granddaughter was afraid of her own father; she was being abused, she confided to her mum, since she was twelve.My blood went to my head. I thought I was going to have a heart attack even if I never had a heart condition, nor any kind of ill health. I shook like a leaf, sharp points of fury seemed to prick my very soul.That was when I started to live with murder on my mind.Can you blame me?PREPARING to fly home to sort what needed to be done, my spirit seemed to float out of my body. I was consumed with rage. I was thinking murder.And then my elder daughter called. She told me that “it was all a misunderstanding”. That the abuse wasn’t abuse at all and that I should enjoy my break and bond with the new baby in the family.My youngest daughter begged me to stay. We haven’t seen each other for over three years at that time.I stayed, but my outrage had not been actually allayed.I HAD reasons to resent this man. He was a wife-beater. My daughter once knocked on my door, showed me her bruises, and begged me to come with her to their house and get her toddler. She was leaving the husband. They were only married for about eighteen months.I insisted that I take her first to a doctor, document the beating she had, and then to the police station to report the abuse. She refused no matter how much I begged her to.Long story short, her husband came to my house after a few weeks. It was before 5:00 a.m. I was still asleep. My daughter, without waking me up, left. Just like that, she forgave the devil, not knowing the fate that awaited their daughter, my granddaughter.SHORTLY after my return from my holiday break with my youngest and her newborn baby, I received a call from my elder daughter. It was past 10:00 in the evening. I was in the middle of a family gathering, my mother’s birthday.I heard sobbing on the phone. I gestured to my gathered siblings and nieces and nephews to be quiet. They did. Then in broken sentences, between sobs, my elder daughter told me that her husband had just beat her up.I activated the speakerphone on my mobile. My family members heard it a

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ll. They were not surprised. They were aware of the previous abuse on their niece. None of them were happy; they just gritted their teeth in fury.Two of my sisters accompanied me to travel the two and a half hours’ drive. Before proceeding to my daughter’s house, we went to the nearest police station to their house. I explained the situation. A couple of uniforms came with us.But, to make this short: nothing happened because my daughter and granddaughter adamantly refused to file a complaint to the police.The authorities, including social services, by law, could not act unless the victim filed a complaint. In the case of minors as the aggrieved, the parent or guardian should file the complaint.I had no legal right.I could only suffer the pain of imagining my daughter, who I nurtured in my breast and did the best I could to give her a good education and a better life than I had, being beaten by a brute. I could only scream in my head in deep anguish for my granddaughter being assaulted by a monster.And so, this is why I live with murder on my mind.But can you blame me?<figure id="8158"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*TwOb6hNb8Ng5ldCfXW7ZMA.jpeg"><figcaption>Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/oldiefan-740865/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=4860783">Oldiefan</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=4860783">Pixabay</a></figcaption></figure>THE primroses and violas survived the snow, frost and rain. They are thriving in my back garden as I write this.The blue tits were back in the nesting box by the rowan tree. I heard the tweeting of baby tits just this morning.Are these good signs?If so, do you think there is hope that my murderous thoughts would wane as I live the rest of my life?Thank you very much for reading. I know this isn’t a happy read, but let’s think of the women and girls out there, suffering domestic abuse and sexual assault, but pretending that all is right in their life, in their world.</article></body>

Living With Murder On My Mind

(Fiction or non-fiction?)

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

I AM big on hopes.

But there are hopes, and then again, there are hopes.

Like hoping for the primroses and violas that suffered snow and frost and rain to survive.

Or hope for the return of the couple of tits that, last spring, made the nesting box in our garden their home.

But the one huge hope that I have, for the past many years, is to mollify what has been on my mind: murder.

THIS frightful thought sprung on my mind as quick as a heartbeat one fine summer day. I was on Skype on a video call to my elder daughter. We were in different continents, with eight hours’ difference in time.

I was in an expansive mood, being on an extended visit to my youngest daughter who has just given birth to her first. Hugging this baby, my grandson, for the first time gave me so much joy. I was over the moon. The infant was my baby’s baby.

This feeling vanished, that of expansiveness, when my elder daughter started to cry, a cry that turned into pitiful sobs. I could almost touch, on the computer screen, the big tears rolling down her cheeks.

(My youngest daughter and my son-in-law were with me during most of the video call and the conversation.)

Parents, especially mothers, would understand the deep anguish I felt when my elder daughter could not immediately get over her sobs to explain. I was so worried, and confused, and so very helpless.

This was what had happened: my elder daughter was invited to speak at an academic conference in another country. She would be away from her home for a few days. Her eldest (my granddaughter), fourteen years old at the time, cried and asked her mom (my daughter) to not leave her alone with her dad. My granddaughter was afraid of her own father; she was being abused, she confided to her mum, since she was twelve.

My blood went to my head. I thought I was going to have a heart attack even if I never had a heart condition, nor any kind of ill health. I shook like a leaf, sharp points of fury seemed to prick my very soul.

That was when I started to live with murder on my mind.

Can you blame me?

PREPARING to fly home to sort what needed to be done, my spirit seemed to float out of my body. I was consumed with rage. I was thinking murder.

And then my elder daughter called. She told me that “it was all a misunderstanding”. That the abuse wasn’t abuse at all and that I should enjoy my break and bond with the new baby in the family.

My youngest daughter begged me to stay. We haven’t seen each other for over three years at that time.

I stayed, but my outrage had not been actually allayed.

I HAD reasons to resent this man. He was a wife-beater. My daughter once knocked on my door, showed me her bruises, and begged me to come with her to their house and get her toddler. She was leaving the husband. They were only married for about eighteen months.

I insisted that I take her first to a doctor, document the beating she had, and then to the police station to report the abuse. She refused no matter how much I begged her to.

Long story short, her husband came to my house after a few weeks. It was before 5:00 a.m. I was still asleep. My daughter, without waking me up, left. Just like that, she forgave the devil, not knowing the fate that awaited their daughter, my granddaughter.

SHORTLY after my return from my holiday break with my youngest and her newborn baby, I received a call from my elder daughter. It was past 10:00 in the evening. I was in the middle of a family gathering, my mother’s birthday.

I heard sobbing on the phone. I gestured to my gathered siblings and nieces and nephews to be quiet. They did. Then in broken sentences, between sobs, my elder daughter told me that her husband had just beat her up.

I activated the speakerphone on my mobile. My family members heard it all. They were not surprised. They were aware of the previous abuse on their niece. None of them were happy; they just gritted their teeth in fury.

Two of my sisters accompanied me to travel the two and a half hours’ drive. Before proceeding to my daughter’s house, we went to the nearest police station to their house. I explained the situation. A couple of uniforms came with us.

But, to make this short: nothing happened because my daughter and granddaughter adamantly refused to file a complaint to the police.

The authorities, including social services, by law, could not act unless the victim filed a complaint. In the case of minors as the aggrieved, the parent or guardian should file the complaint.

I had no legal right.

I could only suffer the pain of imagining my daughter, who I nurtured in my breast and did the best I could to give her a good education and a better life than I had, being beaten by a brute. I could only scream in my head in deep anguish for my granddaughter being assaulted by a monster.

And so, this is why I live with murder on my mind.

But can you blame me?

THE primroses and violas survived the snow, frost and rain. They are thriving in my back garden as I write this.

The blue tits were back in the nesting box by the rowan tree. I heard the tweeting of baby tits just this morning.

Are these good signs?

If so, do you think there is hope that my murderous thoughts would wane as I live the rest of my life?

Thank you very much for reading. I know this isn’t a happy read, but let’s think of the women and girls out there, suffering domestic abuse and sexual assault, but pretending that all is right in their life, in their world.