Commonwealth Essay 2008
Title: This is Where I Live
I wake up every morning to the shrill alarm of my clock. I depart on foot; therefore I have to wake up two hours earlier to reach school in time. I proceed with my daily routines, then exit my dilapidated house and head for school. It was always an interesting journey, as I pass many sights and sounds. I see people from the wealthier districts of my neighbourhood jogging or mowing their lawn. And those shady people who have bloodshot eyes adjacent to them, whom I infer have finally succumbed to the cries of their kidneys and stopped drinking for the night as they lay sprawled on the ground. I hear the chirping of birds, the rumble of engines from the harassed cars trying to close that important deal.
This is where I live.
I come back every day at the same time, only to face the nagging of my drunken mother, and begin my chores to avoid the beatings from her. As I enter her room, I screw up my nose in revulsion at the stench of dried urine and vomit coming from the washroom. This was the room I had to clean every day. While cleaning my mother’s room, countless numbers of bottles of alcohol and needles were strewn everywhere. Everytime I look at them, I feel downcast. “Why does my mother do these things?” I ask myself.
This is where I live.
After getting the house in spick-and-span condition, it was time to cook dinner. I try to remember everything that was taught to me at my Domestic Science classes. Actually it is pretty hard to forget, for I always get a good bashing for every mistake made, whether it is a mistake in following the recipe or if I cut the ingredients too big or too small. After wolfing down the meal, I got my mother a shot of whisky to wash down the ‘lousy’ dinner. It was no use pleading with her to try and lower her alcohol intake; all I would get is a tight slap on my face.
This is where I live.
Christmas arrived once again, an annual celebration for joy to fill the streets of every neighbourhood. Everybody is in a jolly and festive spirit; sounds of carols were floating through the air, houses were adorned with mistletoes and artificial candy canes. Massive Christmas trees struggle under the weight of all the lights and ornaments hanging on it, and glitters scattered to create that magical atmosphere for Santa Clause to appear! Boxes after boxes of presents stacked on top of each other under the colourful Christmas tree, and Christmas stockings hung at the windows, bulging with sweets. I was always green-eyed during Christmas. There is no such thing as a jolly Christmas in my house. My house will look like it always did; no Christmas dinner or presents. The only ‘present’ I get is an assault from my mother for daydreaming. Dinner will always be the same fare I eat, be it Christmas or even my birthday.
This is where I live.
My house has only two rooms, one for my mother and one for me. My bed is made of rags placed on wooden planks called the cold hard floor. Despite that, I still love my room. It is the only place where I can find peace and serenity, and the only place where I can engage in my favourite hobby, reading. I borrow numerous books from the public library, so often that the librarians know me by name! I would usually be excused if I forgot to bring my library card or returned the books after the due date; the public library was just like my second home. I feel that books are my only means of interacting with the outside world. When I borrow library books, I made sure I smuggled them in without letting my mother know, or else they would have been confiscated and burnt. I hide the books under a loose floorboard in my room, just in case my mother comes in while I’m at school.
This is where I live.
Sometimes I wonder whether I was the reason that my mother is in this state. She never treated me nicely, and I was like a pariah in this house. The only time I felt my mother was a real mother to me was when she was fully sober, and hugged me, saying sorry for all the harm that she had done to me. That was the only incident I remember, carved into my memory so deeply. However, that moment only lasted for a short while. It was not long before she started lashing swearing at me all over again.
This is where I live.
Once, my mother’s assaults went overboard and there was bloodshed. Drops of blood stained the ground like pepper, but my mother could only bother about venting her anger. She tried to cover her actions by mopping up the blood on the floor, while I alone in a corner, cringing in pain, and trying to stem the flow of blood. She warned me not to squeak a word to anybody, or else the next bashing would be worse than this. I had to go to school with a homemade bandage around my head, grabbing the attention of everyone that brushed past me. Many of my classmates asked me what had happened, but all I told them was that I had fallen down and hit my head on the edge of the stairs. Even the teachers enquired about it, but I didn’t reveal the truth for fear of being brutally beaten.
This is where I live.
I assume ‘the position of address’ when I know mother is going to hit me: my body stands perfectly still, with my head hung low and my hands glued to my sides. I am not allowed to move a muscle, blink, look at her or even breathe without mother’s direct permission. I am constantly vigilant when I am not in my room, for fear of the next strike. Sometimes she will take the end of the broom and whack me around my shins for not doing the housework properly.
This is where I live.
Every year, each student in my school has a health check up. I always dread these health checkups as all the nurses will be able to see the bruises hidden under my uniform. I had many more bruises this year compared to the last. When the attending nurse saw them, she began to ask me probing questions which I had to handle carefully so as to keep my secret. The pressure of lying was so intense that I began hyperventilating for the first time in my life. The nurse put a bag over my face and tried to calm me down. I could hear gasps from the other students outside. Soothing me with her comforting voice, I instantly could feel my stress being relieved. It felt good, and I was soon back to normal. I then started pouring out all of my fears and the real reason for all the bruises. The nurse was taken aback upon hearing my story, and shocked at the brutality of my mother. After relating my inner fears, I felt new. I felt like a new man. A large burden had just been lifted off my shoulders, I finally felt comfortable, and free.
Today, I am living in a foster home where my foster parents are like angels sent from heaven. They shower me with lots of love and attention, something that I have been deprived off my past fifteen years. As for my mother, she was sent to the Institute of Mental Health for psychiatric treatment. I hope she’ll be fine; she’s my blood-related mother after all. I’m no longer a stranger, or a servant in the house.
This is where I live today. And I am definitely happy about it.
Title: This is Where I Live
I wake up every morning to the shrill alarm of my clock. I depart on foot; therefore I have to wake up two hours earlier to reach school in time. I proceed with my daily routines, then exit my dilapidated house and head for school. It was always an interesting journey, as I pass many sights and sounds. I see people from the wealthier districts of my neighbourhood jogging or mowing their lawn. And those shady people who have bloodshot eyes adjacent to them, whom I infer have finally succumbed to the cries of their kidneys and stopped drinking for the night as they lay sprawled on the ground. I hear the chirping of birds, the rumble of engines from the harassed cars trying to close that important deal.
This is where I live.
I come back every day at the same time, only to face the nagging of my drunken mother, and begin my chores to avoid the beatings from her. As I enter her room, I screw up my nose in revulsion at the stench of dried urine and vomit coming from the washroom. This was the room I had to clean every day. While cleaning my mother’s room, countless numbers of bottles of alcohol and needles were strewn everywhere. Everytime I look at them, I feel downcast. “Why does my mother do these things?” I ask myself.
This is where I live.
After getting the house in spick-and-span condition, it was time to cook dinner. I try to remember everything that was taught to me at my Domestic Science classes. Actually it is pretty hard to forget, for I always get a good bashing for every mistake made, whether it is a mistake in following the recipe or if I cut the ingredients too big or too small. After wolfing down the meal, I got my mother a shot of whisky to wash down the ‘lousy’ dinner. It was no use pleading with her to try and lower her alcohol intake; all I would get is a tight slap on my face.
This is where I live.
Christmas arrived once again, an annual celebration for joy to fill the streets of every neighbourhood. Everybody is in a jolly and festive spirit; sounds of carols were floating through the air, houses were adorned with mistletoes and artificial candy canes. Massive Christmas trees struggle under the weight of all the lights and ornaments hanging on it, and glitters scattered to create that magical atmosphere for Santa Clause to appear! Boxes after boxes of presents stacked on top of each other under the colourful Christmas tree, and Christmas stockings hung at the windows, bulging with sweets. I was always green-eyed during Christmas. There is no such thing as a jolly Christmas in my house. My house will look like it always did; no Christmas dinner or presents. The only ‘present’ I get is an assault from my mother for daydreaming. Dinner will always be the same fare I eat, be it Christmas or even my birthday.
This is where I live.
My house has only two rooms, one for my mother and one for me. My bed is made of rags placed on wooden planks called the cold hard floor. Despite that, I still love my room. It is the only place where I can find peace and serenity, and the only place where I can engage in my favourite hobby, reading. I borrow numerous books from the public library, so often that the librarians know me by name! I would usually be excused if I forgot to bring my library card or returned the books after the due date; the public library was just like my second home. I feel that books are my only means of interacting with the outside world. When I borrow library books, I made sure I smuggled them in without letting my mother know, or else they would have been confiscated and burnt. I hide the books under a loose floorboard in my room, just in case my mother comes in while I’m at school.
This is where I live.
Sometimes I wonder whether I was the reason that my mother is in this state. She never treated me nicely, and I was like a pariah in this house. The only time I felt my mother was a real mother to me was when she was fully sober, and hugged me, saying sorry for all the harm that she had done to me. That was the only incident I remember, carved into my memory so deeply. However, that moment only lasted for a short while. It was not long before she started lashing swearing at me all over again.
This is where I live.
Once, my mother’s assaults went overboard and there was bloodshed. Drops of blood stained the ground like pepper, but my mother could only bother about venting her anger. She tried to cover her actions by mopping up the blood on the floor, while I alone in a corner, cringing in pain, and trying to stem the flow of blood. She warned me not to squeak a word to anybody, or else the next bashing would be worse than this. I had to go to school with a homemade bandage around my head, grabbing the attention of everyone that brushed past me. Many of my classmates asked me what had happened, but all I told them was that I had fallen down and hit my head on the edge of the stairs. Even the teachers enquired about it, but I didn’t reveal the truth for fear of being brutally beaten.
This is where I live.
I assume ‘the position of address’ when I know mother is going to hit me: my body stands perfectly still, with my head hung low and my hands glued to my sides. I am not allowed to move a muscle, blink, look at her or even breathe without mother’s direct permission. I am constantly vigilant when I am not in my room, for fear of the next strike. Sometimes she will take the end of the broom and whack me around my shins for not doing the housework properly.
This is where I live.
Every year, each student in my school has a health check up. I always dread these health checkups as all the nurses will be able to see the bruises hidden under my uniform. I had many more bruises this year compared to the last. When the attending nurse saw them, she began to ask me probing questions which I had to handle carefully so as to keep my secret. The pressure of lying was so intense that I began hyperventilating for the first time in my life. The nurse put a bag over my face and tried to calm me down. I could hear gasps from the other students outside. Soothing me with her comforting voice, I instantly could feel my stress being relieved. It felt good, and I was soon back to normal. I then started pouring out all of my fears and the real reason for all the bruises. The nurse was taken aback upon hearing my story, and shocked at the brutality of my mother. After relating my inner fears, I felt new. I felt like a new man. A large burden had just been lifted off my shoulders, I finally felt comfortable, and free.
Today, I am living in a foster home where my foster parents are like angels sent from heaven. They shower me with lots of love and attention, something that I have been deprived off my past fifteen years. As for my mother, she was sent to the Institute of Mental Health for psychiatric treatment. I hope she’ll be fine; she’s my blood-related mother after all. I’m no longer a stranger, or a servant in the house.
This is where I live today. And I am definitely happy about it.
1 comment:
I like the poetic device of repetition.
However, what is your desired effect from being monotonous in the paragraphing?
I felt the writer's distinct voice is missing.
Good flow of ideas and language expression though.
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