Not The First Time

Not the First Time By Cathrin Stuart Late at night, you came home drunk Not the first time I heard you and Mommy talking Not the first time You came and pulled me out of bed by the hair Not the first time You beat me in the passage until I bled Not the first time I was not allowed to cry, mop up the blood Not the first time Mommy, you watched with a cold, hard stare Not the first time Instead of protecting, in the violence you shared Not the first time The school told you the beatings need to stop Not the first time But your words were, “Rather you than me.” Not the first time Backstory: Not the First Time I still don’t know what was said between my mother and father that night, or on any of the nights he came home drunk, slamming doors and shaking walls with his fury. I wasn’t meant to hear their conversations—but I always did. Thinking back now, I wonder if it wasn’t just his alcohol that lit the match, but her words too. My mother had a sharp tongue, and she wasn’t a stranger to raising her hand either. Discipline came quick in our home—slaps, belts, whatever was closest. I was already asleep when he barged in. I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe I failed a math test—math was never my strength. Maybe she said something that made him believe I needed to be taught a lesson. Whatever it was, I didn’t stand a chance. He yanked me out of bed by the hair. The hallway was cold, but my body burned with fear. His fists came hard and fast. I still carry the scar beneath my bottom lip from that night. Mint green nightie, arms folded, her standing in the frame of their bedroom door. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak. She stared at me, squinting, like she was watching something that mildly pleased her but wasn’t worth stopping. I searched her face for any sign of shock or horror—but found only cold detachment. Her eyes didn’t soften. Her body didn’t move. And that, I think, was the moment I stopped expecting to be saved. It was also the year the violence grew teeth—worse than before, more frequent. Part of me was grateful my siblings weren’t there. I can only imagine how they would have mocked me, teased me, made my pain part of a joke. My sister and brother Pieter—my mother’s “precious middles”—would’ve probably watched like she did: distant, unaffected. And that night, as my blood hit the floor and her eyes bore into me like I was something she was trying to erase, I knew... It wasn’t the first time.