It was still drizzling wet outside when papa stormed into the house almost bringing down the rusty nails from the creaky door.

Even after eighteen years of this familiar feeling that coexists within me, I still shudder at his mere sight.

“Take care of that damn cat scavenging the trash outside before I clip you, this is the third time this week,” he said to mother.

‘Clip you’, those were his words to mother every time he was ready to take a pound of her flesh.

The next evening papa came home with the smell of liquor dancing on his breath. He had poison and a machete, on one hand, liquor on the other.

“He is finally getting something done himself,” I said to myself.

“You cannot take care of the simplest things around the house. I have no use for you” he said to mother as he laid down his weapon siege for the scavenger at night.

It was now 1 am and I had woken up to an unusual sound. It wasn’t the usual sound of the cat hunting food, it came from the back of the house.

I moved slowly towards the back as though I was walking on eggshells. Father seemed to have butchered flesh tied up in a sac. He was covered in as much blood as the walls and the floor.
“poor cat” I muttered.

The next morning, I found the empty bottle of poison under our raggedy couch while sweeping the house. At the very least, the mother doesn’t have to worry about a cat. It was the last of her problems. But it’s been five days now and mother still hasn’t come home yet.

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