Some of you may have read this before:
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When I was four, I had, on a mad impulse lashed out my fist at my classmate at the kindergarten. The teacher was, of course, extremely furious and proceeded without hesitation to call my parents.
Mother was dead, so Father was summoned from his office to the school to sort things out with the parents of the injured classmate. They were angry, of course, and the whole school yard reverberated with their thunderous accusations. Father remained passive throughout, and eventually he agreed to help pay the amound required for the dentist to replace the tooth i knocked out. Then he led me to the car and returned home with me being inwardly gleeful; Father did not appear angry, everything was all right.
Yet, the moment we got home, Father threw me a punch across my cheek. I was driven to the floor by the sheer force of the punch, and as I lay on the floor, winded and crying, Father asked in a soft voice what does it feel like to be hit like that. He then pulled me up and ordered me to stand straight facing the wall for the next five hours. I was uninjured, though perhaps my feelings for Father was.
Hatred for Father blinded me to the point that I chucked the sandwich he gave me to relieve the gastric cramps into the dustbin and did not see the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
—
When I was nine, I swore in such fluency to the teacher who berated me for not paying attention that she burst into tears and immediately dashed out of the classroom. It was not surprising that the discipline master asked me over to his office personally an hour later. I endured half an hour of shouting before he called Father.
Again, Father met the onslaught with a passiveness I had never seen, and when everything was over I was told to return home. Before we left, however, Father made a strange request. He asked for whatever I had said to the teacher.
Once we got home, Father told me to sit down on the floor. I was nonplussed, not knowing anything about the hell I was about to be put through later.
“Rena,” Father began, “you are trash, an imbecile. You know nothing except to eat your own puke. You’re a wastrel, a good-for-nothing, and a downright bitch. You should go throw yourself down the rubbish chute. I wish I’d never had a daughter like you.”
That was, of course, exactly what I had said to my teacher, yet when it was all directed to me I broke down immediately, because it was Father who said it. I lay on the floor, angry tears spilling from my swollen eyes. Oh, how I wish I could rip his face out! Break his limbs! Stab a knife through his beating heart!
I was made to kneel down for the rest of the day, and once again I was blinded thoroughly by hatred that I failed to listen to his conversation with his manager, that he had been fired because he left an important meeting with a client abruptly just to see the discipline master and bring me home.
—
When I was fifteen, I became steady with a boy from another school. During one of our dates he advanced on me and soon we were kissing fiercely as though glued together at a park near the bus bay, when Father alighted from a bus and saw us.
He was livid. Like a racing cheetah he rushed over to us in the blinking of an eye, wrenched us apart, and hit the boy so hard that blood spurted from his mouth and nose. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled and dragged me home.
Father must have known that I had skipped school and gone to rendezvous with the boy instead, but he did not do anything to me when we reached home. He reached into his bag instead and pulled out a wrapped package. “Happy birthday,” he smiled as he said.
So he had remembered! My heart flooded with joy as the black box containing my much-desired iPod emerged from the torn wrapping. Then guilt burst the dams as I realised that Father still got me my present despie the weekly reports from the discipline master concerning my behaviour and academics.
This time, I was not encased in fury. I was so guilty that I heard that my boyfriend’s parents were suing Father for hitting their child.
I sat there, pearly tears flowing down my cheeks. Many times Father had punished me, but did I realise what they were for? Did I?
—
When I was eighteen, I was one of the few eligible for a scholarship bursary that would cover my expenses for my further studies at the revered Tokyo College for Animation. I was invited to make a speech on the day of the prize-giving ceremony.
I dedicated my thanks to my teachers, friends and everyone else. But there was one special person whom I had saved for the last.
“My father is my very special person,” I said, my eyes burning with tears. “He has cried, sacrificed his job and reputation, even going to court for me, just so that he can impart to me the key factor behind my success: discipline. For this, I thank him. I love you, Father.”
I could see his beaming face among the applauding audience, as proud as he could ever be of his daughter.
—
This was an essay I did during one of our common tests. How many marks I got for this does not matter; I am looking forward instead to your comments. Whether good or bad, just post ‘em. Whatever you want to say, just post it, but please do not stoop so low as to impersonate others, unless you are a goat.
And while you’re reading/posting comments, how about some music?
The music above is titled Karma, from the visual novel Ever17 -the out of infinity- by KID.
This song is titled Sense, the third ending theme from the anime series Shakugan no Shana Second.
