My past live part 1.
Growing up, my home was never a peaceful place. Some people might say that every family has its problems, but I don't believe that. Not every child grows up in a house filled with shouting, fighting, and pain. Not every child goes to sleep afraid of what might happen next. But for me, that was my normal.
The only time I ever heard my father say he was proud of me was when I was eight years old. Just those few words made me happier than anything else in the world. But that was the first and last time he ever said it. After that, I never heard it again.
Instead of love, comfort, and safety, my childhood was filled with violence. My parents fought—not just arguments, but real, physical fights. Sometimes my mother would slap my father. Other times, they would scream at each other for hours until the shouting turned into something worse. They would hit, kick, and even use weapons against each other. It was like watching a battle from an anime—like Naruto, where two warriors clash with everything they have.
The strangest part? No matter how much they hurt each other, they never separated. They stayed together, year after year, even though their fights left deep scars on me and my siblings.
And here's the biggest surprise of all: my father is a pastor. Not just any pastor—he believes God Himself called him to preach. My mother comes from a family of pastors too. Her father, my grandfather, was also a man of God. So, in the eyes of the world, my parents should have been the perfect couple—holy, peaceful, loving. But the truth was the opposite.
Their marriage was not blessed. It was a war. Trying to make them stop fighting was like asking Goku to stop getting stronger—impossible. Or like telling Tom to stop chasing Jerry—it would never happen. Their love was not soft or kind. It was loud, painful, and destructive.
And as their child, I had no escape. I grew up watching them tear each other apart, wondering why God would put two people like that together. Wondering why my home had to feel like a battlefield instead of a safe place.
Sometimes, I find myself wondering—how in the world did my parents ever get married? This question haunted me for years, gnawing at my young mind like an unsolved mystery. I couldn't stand not knowing anymore, so at the tender age of seven, I mustered up all the courage I had and marched into my mother's room to ask her the burning question that had plagued me for so long.
She was sitting on her bed, a book titled How to Control Your Anger clutched in her right hand. I stood there, my small frame trembling slightly, before I finally spoke.
"Mommy," I began, my voice shaky but determined, "how did you marry Father? Did you love him?"
She looked up from her book, her lips curling into a soft smile. "Yes, my son," she replied warmly. "I loved him then, and I still love him now. I married him because I loved him. Does that answer your question?"
I nodded, satisfied—for a moment. But as she waved her hand, signaling for me to leave, I hesitated. There was something else I needed to ask, something that had been bothering me even more than the first question.
"Mom," I called out again.
She turned her gaze back to me, her expression patient but curious. "What is it?" she asked.
I wasn't stupid. I knew this next question could set her off. So, before I spoke, I did something smart—I cracked the door open slightly, just enough so I could make a quick escape if things went south.
My mother's eyes narrowed. "Why are you opening the door?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.
I ignored her question and blurted out mine before I lost my nerve. "You say you love Dad, right?"
She nodded firmly.
I took a deep breath and continued. "Then why do you always fight and argue with each other?"
The moment those words left my mouth, I saw it—the shift in her mood. Her eyes darkened, her grip on the book tightened, and her entire body seemed to tense up like a coiled spring.
I didn't wait to see what came next.
As she lunged at me, I dodged her outstretched hands with the agility of a frightened rabbit and bolted out of the room. My little legs carried me down the hallway at lightning speed, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. I didn't stop until I reached my room, where I slammed the door shut and locked it with trembling fingers.
Safe.
Or so I thought.
The heavy THUD against my door told me otherwise. My mother was kicking it—hard. Each impact shook the frame, the wood groaning under the force of her rage.
She's not getting in this time, I told myself, pressing my back against the door as if my tiny body could reinforce it.
But my mother had other plans.
With one final, earth-shattering kick, the door exploded inward, splintering into pieces as it crashed to the ground. The sound was deafening—BOOM!—and my heart nearly stopped.
Fear seized me, cold and paralyzing. I stumbled backward, landing hard on my butt, my wide eyes fixed on the wreckage of my only defense.
And then—she was there.
My mother, her eyes blazing with fury, stepped over the broken door like a warrior entering a battlefield. There was no mercy in her gaze, no hint of the loving woman who had smiled at me just moments ago.
I scrambled backward, desperate to escape, but it was too late.
She grabbed me, lifting me into the air as if I weighed nothing, and then—
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
The pain was instant, sharp, and unrelenting. I screamed, my voice cracking with terror and agony, but she didn't stop. When she finally let go, I crashed to the floor, my body aching from the impact.
Tears streamed down my face like a waterfall, but my mother didn't care. There was no sympathy in her eyes—only cold, unyielding anger.
I tried to crawl under my bed, my last hope for refuge, but her hand shot out, gripping my ankle with an iron hold. With terrifying strength, she yanked me back into the open, my limbs flailing helplessly.
And then—she pulled out the spatula.
That was the moment I knew—I was doomed.
I screamed. I begged. I tried to run. But it was useless. My mother moved with the precision and speed of Whis from Dragon Ball Super, anticipating my every move before I even made it. There was no escape.
That day, I learned two things:
Some questions are better left unasked.
Never underestimate a mother's wrath.
To be continued…