16/12/2024
๐ฉ๐๐ช๐ ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ฉ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ | For The Woman I Will Never Be
by Mindy Haze Ansagay
April 16, 2014. A young girl sat, crisscrossed on the couch, her eyes fixed on the flashing screen before her. Her curiosity was seeping in as the animated film continued to rush over. In the corner of the house was meโwatching and waiting.
โMa, do you think that will happen to me?โ the little girl asked her mother, who happened to walk past the living room with a little plate of snacks in her hand.
I stared at the glaring television. It displayed a cartoon version of a woman inside a cell, knees scraped with a tinge of blood and dirt, face filled with hatred. The graphics were rather good, I almost commended the maker. Almost. Because however good a person is, there is always something hidden behind a clean facade.
โOf course not, sweetie. That will never happen to you.โ said the mother.
Lies, I scoffed. How sure was she?
The young girl nodded, seemingly contended with her motherโs reply as she took a bite of the snack on the plate.
Ignoring the young girl, I followed the mother through the kitchen door. A hefty sigh escaped her mouth, her back leaned by the sink, both hands on her chest in an attempt to stop her heart from beating too fast. Her face was panic-stricken, with trembling hands and shaky legs. I couldn't help it, yet I knew why she was acting like this.
Years ago, under a moonlit night, a storm was ragingโnot the tempest of nature, but a fury of unchecked reality. A woman was sitting by a flickering light. Her calloused hand told stories that words dare not speak. Her silence was not empty. Instead, it was filled with screams swallowed whole, with dreams abandoned in the dark alleys of despair. In front of her, a child clutched a tattered toyโa doll missing a leg, a grim reflection of innocence torn apart.
What was it about this storm that it thrived in the spaces where love should dwell? A hand raised in anger, a word sharpened into a dagger, a gaze that pierces the soulโthese are its weapons. And yet, the world turned its head, feigning blindness, as though the weight of a thousand shattered hearts could be ignored.
The woman remembered a time when her laughter echoed freely, like a bird in the summer sky. She remembered the strength she once held, now buried beneath the rubble of her spirit. The child, too young to know the fullness of joy, dreams only of peaceโa peace that eludes their fragile world.
The walls of their home bore witness to the storm. Its eye forced its way through the new world as the woman waited for the new dawn that was difficult to come by, the horizon that would never appear, and the hope that was long forgotten. It carried the imprints of rage, the faint echoes of apologies whispered too late, the shadows of promises broken. They could see her horror, heard her palpitation, sensed her trembles, and yet no one wanted help. Shameless, unworthy of attention, undaunted pride.
Still, she stood, stoic and unyielding, as if to say, This is not the end.
Outside, the world hummed with the rhythm of life, oblivious to the battles fought in silence. Neighbors passed by, their eyes averting from the bruises that tell tales theyโd rather not hear. Society cloaked itself in indifference, blaming the victim, excusing the oppressor, and perpetuating the cycle with its apathy.
There had been no hope whatsoever. No matter how much yearning they had, the world would find a way to squash it all down to the deepest grime of earth. It was a shame because I remembered watching the older woman whispering to the child about how the world would change. Fact check? Nothing changed! It was still appalling.
The woman I had been watching by the kitchen decided it was time to do the dishes. I scanned her exposed arms, where scars of the past burned her future. Every pain was a memory of something agonizingโa memory of the storm she had once gone through with a tiny child cradled on her chest.
Many people should wonder, how did she manage it? And I myself asked that question many times despite surveilling it the entire time. Oh, how the story would shock them? Would they be inspired? Disgusted? I have no idea. All I knew was that they would see her in a different light. A light where she would be seen as the he**in of her story, wherein she singlehandedly wrecked her way out of the storm of reality whilst protecting the only thing she had; the childโher younger self.
And here I was, standing inside the house where the woman and the child had sought comfort after the storm. I was a mere phantomโwalking around, observing the place many times than I could have counted. This has always been my life; watching over the past and future me because I was afraid that it would happen againโthe torment of the stormโand that I wouldnโt be there to protect any of my other personas.
If protecting them would mean I wouldnโt experience what they did, then Iโd die being their shield for whatever storm comes ahead. Iโd stand as a resistance; a wall guarding the dream of the child and the hope of the woman. The storm does not end quickly; it fights to maintain to hold. But with every step the woman took, with every word the child spoke, its grip weakens and my hold of the wall thickens.
For the woman I will never be, you are now well protected. The storm finally left you, and if ever it comes back, I wonโt hesitate to stand by you. Let your story remind the people of the countless others who still endure the storm. Let it call others to action, to stand as protectors and healers. For every woman and child who struggles in silence, let them be the voice that says, You are not alone. I am here, for I will not be the woman who bore kneeling on the dirty cell.
Illustration by Aishley Beyonce Ventura
