The Strength of a Saiyan
My parents separated when I was very young. I have no memories of my dad living with us in our house in Pennsylvania. My earliest memories of him are from my summers visiting him in Houston, and the abuse that I suffered there at the hands of the woman who would become my stepmom, Cherry.
Before bringing us to the airport, my mom brought the three of us to a toy store. She wanted us to leave her side happy, letting us each pick out a toy to bring with us to visit our father. Dragon Ball Z was my favorite TV show. I had just watched the episode where the Z fighters faced Dabura, the king of the demon realm, who turned his enemies to stone with his spit. Pulling it from the shelf, I handed it to her filled with excitement. She bought us our toys and pried them out of the plastic containers for us as soon as we got back in the car. I carried it with me onto that first flight to Texas. My mom folded down the tray table from the seat in front of me so that I could use it to play with my new action figure. At baggage claim, she held back tears as she said goodbye to us. I, however, could not.
Although I cheered up in the car with my dad on our way to his house, sorrow and dread found me again shortly. When I cried that night for my mom, she scolded me.
One evening, several weeks later, I asked her to turn on my favorite show, Dragon Ball Z. Shortly after switching the channel to Cartoon Network, she left the room. In my excitement, I quickly retrieved my Dabura action figure, playing with it on the coffee table as I watched the episode. A few minutes later, she re-entered the room. Storming towards me, she reached down and attempted to rip the toy away from me. It was the only thing that I had from my mom. We had not spoken once since the airport. Cherry and my dad told me that she didn’t call because she didn’t love me. They even wanted me to start calling Cherry mom, but I could not, the same way I could not let go of the toy. Even when hopeless, the Z fighters never gave up.
Frustrated that she could not pry the toy from my little fingers, she struck me across the face. Her palm clapped as it met my cheek. Tears filled my eyes as I let go of the toy and balled my hand into a fist. I punched her in the stomach. Keeling over, she dropped the toy to the floor. I collected it quickly, ran into the bathroom, and locked the door. Her angry shouts filled me with fear as I sat on the ground, hugged the action figure to my chest, and wept.
The safety I found locked in the bathroom shaped her future abuse. From then on, she would find an excuse to lock me away in the different rooms of the house for hours at a time. One of these times, she locked me in her and my dad’s room. After about an hour into my imprisonment, I found a silver and black home phone sitting on their nightstand. Curious, I pressed the button on the answering machine. My mother’s voice began to play.
“Mom?” I asked quietly, not wanting Cherry or my dad to hear me through the door. In her voicemail, she pleaded with my dad to talk to us. After the message ended, the next one from her played. Thirty more followed. I cried through them all and for hours after.
