A Memoir of a Mother’s Sacrifice
Over the years, I’ve managed to remember very little about my mother; and what I can remember is miniscule and only comes in flashes.
I remember her hair, long and auburn like autumn leaves, as they come with the memory of running chubby fingers through those long ringlets. I remember her hands, delicate and small, as they come with the memory of how they fit perfectly into my father’s larger ones. I remember her smile, perfect and wide, as it comes with memories of birthdays long past.
However, the thing I remember, and wish to forget, the most are her chocolate eyes; not for her eyes themselves, but for the memory with which they come.
I was six at the time, asleep in my bed whilst blissfully unaware of the atrocities that I was about to bare witness to. It was only with a vicious banging that I awoke, and was greeted with a sight most foul. Those aforementioned eyes, the eyes that drill deep into my soul with every glance I catch in a mirror, were drowning in fear, possessing an air of tragedy to them that sent an unshakable chill straight through my bones. Her expression was akin to that of a spooked horse, wild with a horror brought on by danger unseen, and a deadly knowledge holding strong to her shoulders.
Her normally calm voice shook with panic as she ordered me and my bleary eyes out of bed and into my warmest winter coat and boots. Despite my drowsy state, I did as I was told to the best of my ability before returning my gaze to my mother, only to find her lean frame hunched over my dresser drawers, frantically stuffing clothes into a duffel bag by the fistfulls. I vaguely recall that at this point, the weight of the situation sunk in and, in a sudden panic that something was awry, I strangled out a weary cry for her comfort.
Her response was almost instantaneous, abandoning her frantic behavior in favor of running a comforting hand through my hair, before moving to cradle my cheek methodically, almost as if it was for her own comfort rather than mine; whispering soothing words against the shell of my ear as I was cradled against her chest.
“Hush now baby, it’s okay. I’m right here Danny, there’s no reason to cry. Listen, I know you’re scared right now, but I need you to be the brave little bear I know you are.”
I can vaguely recall her delicate fingers brushing tears from my cheeks, her usual warm smile cutting my anxiety at the bud. The gentle and constant rhythm of her heartbeat quickly muted any fear that remained.
It was a touching moment, looking back, and I wish now that it had gone on longer, but my father’s panicked cry came from downstairs to snap my mother back into reality, scooping me up to balance on her hip with one hand and the straps of the still open duffel bag with the other. Together, we roared down the stairs and into the waiting arms of my father, who stood by the front door and casting the occasional paranoid glance out the small window at the very top of the aforementioned door.
His eyes also held that wild, almost animalistic look as he cradled the two of us in his arms, and that same sense of anxiety washed over me once more.
“Annie, they’re getting closer,” my father fretted, “We’ve got to go, and fast.”
I watched as my mother's face contorted into a mixture of fear and sorrow, and I can remember the exact moment my father realised it was because she wasn’t coming with us.
“No, no, no,” he cried, panic rising in his voice faster than the flood waters of a hurricane, “I’m not leaving you behind! You are too precious to me Annie, you’re my whole universe and I can’t do this without you darlin, I won’t!”
I’m not quite sure what happened next, as my mother’s heartbeat that had been my only company for the nine months I spent within her before my birth had coaxed my brain back to dreamland, but the next thing I can recall is another rude awakening, the second one that evening, as my small frame was shoved into the arms of my father.
I turned my head to face my mother in protest, only to discover her closing the gap between the three of us, with a strange glaze over her eyes that looked vaguely solem. My nerves, as I recall, shot through the roof at this small gesture and the suffocating air of finality that was brought with it.
“Gabe,” she breathed, her hand raising to cup his cheek and run fingers through the dark scruff of his beard, “you are, without a doubt, the best of husbands and the best of men. I know how much you think you need me, and how much you care, but I need you to be that brave young man I fell in love with all those years ago and take care of our baby. That’s all that matters right now, Danny’s safety.”
Tears began to prick the corners of his eyes, closing them as he leaned his head into her palm.
“I can’t lose you,” he murmured.
“I know Gabe, I know, but right now I just need you both to be safe. Go to my Uncle Bruce’s house, and I’ll meet you there once this is all over, okay?”
“Okay.”
It was at this point that my mother bent down to look me in the eye, running a hand over the crest of my head in such a way that the simple action sent sensations of comfort down the column of my spine.
“Danny, sweetheart, you and Daddy are gonna go away for awhile to Uncle Bruce’s house and Mommy’s gonna meet you guys there, okay?”
I remember nodding past my fear, and in that moment, truly believing the lie she fed me of how everything was going to be alright. It’s not something I can hold against her though, since a mother’s job is to comfort a child at all costs.
She smiled another sad smile as she leaned in to plant another kiss on my forehead, and I remember her saying, “That’s my good little bear. I need you to be brave and remember, I always love you, I always will….”
The smile that was apparently plastered across my father’s face at their nickname for me, little bear, disappeared when a loud crash and an increase of yelling and screaming came from behind the door and diverted their attention back to the grim matter at hand.
“You have to go now, before they get here,” my mother pleaded, pushing the two of us in the direction of the back door.
My father went willingly, only stopping as he and I were halfway out the door, when he suddenly turned on his heels to crash his lips against my mother’s in one, final, goodbye kiss.
“I love you,” came his murmur and subsequent tears.
“I know,” came her reply, as she hugged us both with teary eyes, “Now go, get out of here!”
The chaos that hunted us must have heard this, for the yells and screams had begun to advance toward us at a speed that rivaled the one at which the panic within us rose, strangling a cry for father and I to run from my mother, as she vainly attempted to hold off our attackers.
Yet what haunts me most about my mother's eyes came from the memory that followed. Our house, the one where I was born, went up flames as my mother grabbed a dagger from her belt and lunged at the group with a fierce battle cry. She took out at least twenty figures nearly twice her size before a pair of burly figures slapped the blade from her grasp, forcing her to kneel before the group by her forearms. And as she cried a final plea of “RUN” to us, a toxic mixture of fear and anguish in her eyes, a figure, whom I’ve assumed to be the leader of our group of assailants, reared up a knife from behind and slit her throat as I watched.
That's the last memory I have of that night, my father’s cry of pure agony as my mother’s body hitting the ground with a sickening thump, her final look of shock and horror plastered forever on her face as invigorated cheers rose from her murderers, like hunting dogs released one a fox.
It is an image that has played over and over again inside my head over the years, the imagery of all my nightmares, that all brand one thing into my mind's eye amongst the blood spatter and fire. On the arm of the knife-wielder who murdered my mother is inked an image most foul, depicting the ferocious body of a snake constricting itself around the rotted skull of a deer.
I know not why such a tragedy took place, nor why my family was its victim, but what I do know is this; that man with the snake tattoo is responsible, and I will stop at nothing to bring him to justice.
I do this for my father, for myself, and most importantly, for my mother’s sacrifice.