May there someday be tranquility for the lost souls trapped in an eternity of Hell, devoured in the flames of sin.  May there be fortitude for the vessels wrapped in the darkness of the fallen angels.  May the lost sheep obliterate their evil and grasp the endless light of serenity.  He was once a good man, for the little time I knew him.  Misguided by the corrupt judgments, he fell short to be the father he dreamt about.  Once a gentle man who looked past himself, turned destructive to his precious family. 

A dark lonely vessel with fiery hatred covered by golden rays of sunshine and forged smiles was who I was for a time.  It’s a period of time that will never leave me, and it drives me today to become better than he.  Everyone sees the joy and happiness in me but is blind to see the fading jubilant soul.  The sadness and hatred is a giant wave, holding me down at the bottom of the ocean.  I would never forget the day: August 23, 2006, the day my life and I would change forever. 

One cold, gloomy day, sun never showed due to the ashen clouds that covered the crystal sky.  Ten seconds seemed like a minute, and a minute seemed like an hour.  I overheard loud yelling and screaming.  “I hate you!  You’re not a real man.”  The words had a spine-chilling feeling.  I froze stiff to the bone, almost sedentary not knowing what to do as I heard the cries and shattering glass.  I looked absent minded but contemplated ways to approach the situation.  Even though my mom wasn’t present her voice came to me in my subconscious, “Help.”  On the outside I felt cold and clammy to the touch, but deep inside I sensed the hot anger; blood red rage inside of me ignited to a boil.  I kept it locked up.  I wasn’t worried, but this time it was different as I heard the smack of a hand followed by the cry of my little brother.  I lost it.  Every single moment of hatred for him all flooded my mind.  Time slowed, as I perceive everything so clearly.  Seeing everything in front of me so detailed as if the rigid trim on the walls were right next to me gave me an eerie sensation.

As I sprinted to the living room, one tear escaped down from my left eye.  I have cried before, but that one tear felt more horrible than any other, as if I’d just watched thousands of innocent souls perish.  My sister, balled in the corner of the room, looked terrified and shook as the smell of nickel roamed in the air near my stepmother, while being hit rapidity in the face where bruises still showed from times before.  I darted to my one-year-old brother in the middle of the room, lying there bawling, and coddled him after he was abused mercilessly.  My sister cried out to me, “Run!  Get away from here!”  I had to do anything to stop him.

Only being seven-years-old, there was not much I could do, for he was a man.  I knew if I did anything I would get the wrath from him as well, but I did not care.  I hated him with all my life.  I hated him.  Rushing towards him with bloodlust in my eyes, I leaped with a punch to his face, and he staggered a bit.  I stormed at him once more, but this time he snatched my arm and hurled me against the wall, leaving a big, rugged dent, as big as a crater, in the wall.  He roared at me, “You better stay there or else I won’t go easy next time!”  Stuck in the wall, I saw everything before me, still as statues and realized how my life would be from there on forward; siblings scattered around the room scratched, bloodied, bruised, crying, and scared--a sign to represent the years to come and how separated and tough life would be after that day.  My stepmother lay on the ground almost lifeless, representing the pain and horror she has been through with him and how she will never forget till her last breathe.  The deafening silence left a toxic residue.

As I descended out of the hole, once again time slowed.  I began to tear again; a smooth, clear crystal slid down my face, as cops broke down the door and tackled him to the ground.  The cops yelled repeatedly, “Stop! Get on the ground!”  I hit the rough, cold floor, with chalky dust in my mouth and looked up to see him looking at me directly in the eyes.  Held against the floor, he began to cry.  He began to cry.  He now lives in the depths of despair.  I felt no sorrow for him. 

The one word the cops screamed, “Stop,” goes through my head almost every day.  If only he had just stopped, none of that would have happened.  Then again a part of me is glad it happened because it made me the person I am today.  I’m as sturdy as an oak now, and I learned how to get along without anyone’s help.  Ever since that day, when I was a seven-year-old, I have changed the way I talk, think, and perceive people.  I don’t talk about him to anyone; I never have.  That day taught me the significant truths about life.  I don’t need anyone to get through my life.  Trust can easily be broken and never healed.  The ones who are the closest can hurt you the most.  May the unforgiving, one-day mend the eternal scarlet scar left by the recidivist who pleads for amnesty.