Rekindled Love

Jasmine's Pov

The sun shone faintly; it was midsummer, and I was still in bed, tossing and turning. My thoughts were chaotic, swirling around my mind like a storm.

"Jasmine is a mistake," my father shouted angrily. His face was so hard, filled with rage, that it felt like he wanted to kill me. I hated my father with a passion.

He is cruel, taking pleasure in hurting my mother. "Jasmine is not my child," he keeps reminding her, and sometimes, I wonder if he believes it himself. In fact, I agree with him. I can't be his daughter when he is such a ruthless and dishonest man. My heart breaks for my mother, a lovely and beautiful woman who ended up with him. I remember her telling me that her parents betrothed her to him, as if it was some kind of cruel joke. My father's words keep echoing in my mind, tearing my heart into pieces-a father who harbors so much hatred for his own daughter.

It's always been my dream to attend Kisco High School, where I could pursue my passion for art and make something of myself. But when I told my father about it, he blurted out, "You are useless, and I won't waste my money on you." Those words cut deep, slicing through my self-esteem. I dreaded him so much that I sat staring at the ceiling, wondering what I could possibly do to prove I wasn't useless. I felt trapped in a life that seemed hopeless.

"Hey, Jasmine!" my mother called as she pushed open the door to my room.

Her voice brought me back to reality. I didn't even notice when she entered. "Mom, he hates me," I said, tears welling up in my eyes. "Don't worry; it will be okay," she said as she held me tightly, her embrace warm and comforting.

My mother is such a wonderful woman; she is my role model, and I adore her. She works so hard to make our lives better, often at her own expense.

"It was my dream, Mom, but he shattered it," I said as I clung to my painting, grasping a sheet filled with sketches of my dreams for the future.

"I have gotten a job; I will make sure you get that dream of yours," she replied, stroking my cheek gently, as if trying to wipe away my tears.

She has lost so much weight in the last four months; the stress of our situation has taken its toll on her. She lost her good-paying job, and because of that, I couldn't go further in school. Daddy always punches her-it terrifies me to see him do that to her. I wish I could make money; I would elope with her to make her happy; she deserves to be happy.

When I heard she got a job, a glimmer of hope sparked within me. Now, I'm applying for a scholarship at Kisco. "I love you, Mommy," I said, trying to lift her spirits.

I hugged her tightly, and she winced in pain when my hand accidentally brushed her stomach.

"Mom, are you okay?"

It struck me hard to see her in pain. I opened her shirt to see what was bothering her. I shut my eyes at what I saw. She had many scars around her stomach, ugly reminders of the violence she endured. It was infuriating and heartbreaking. I felt fear in her eyes, and I realized that my dad was indeed a monster.

"I'm sure he did this to you." I wasn't expecting her to say anything because she kept covering for him.

She struggles to accept that she is married to a beast.

"Your father is a nice man; don't think like that," she keeps telling me, but I know the truth.

My mother rarely shares anything with me about her life with my father, and it frustrates me. I still can't believe her parents betrothed her to him. Something must be behind this dead marriage. I can't see any love in it; my mom keeps dying in silence. She thinks I don't know what Dad is doing to her.

"No, Mom, he is a wicked man. Please stop defending him."

She shushed me, not allowing me to express how I see my father. "Dearly, he is your father; you know that," she said, almost pleading.

I don't want her to say that to me. She knows his hatred for me and the fact that he never views me as his daughter. He constantly tells me,

"No, Mom, he is not my dad."

I could argue that nature deceived me by making me his daughter, but I'm not sure I am. A DNA test would confirm my ancestry, but the thought of that seems impossible.

"I hope you are not holding grudges against your father; I have found a way for you to attend Kisco High School."

I already hate my father; he doesn't see me as his daughter. He says I'm useless and a mistake.

I can't make sense of anything; he has ruined my life and my mother's life. I hate him so much right now that I don't know what to say to her. She should understand that I'm not like her, who can bear his torment. He is awful, and he resembles a beast.

"Sweetie," she touched me gently, sensing that I was lost in thought.

"I hope you're not thinking about it."

She had noticed that I often got lost in my thoughts, my mind racing with dark images of my father's anger.

My mind is stuck on my father, which is why I can't concentrate anymore.

"No, Mom, it frightens me to see your eyes glistening with tears." "I can't hold it; I'm torn by emotions." I love her so much. I would do anything to make her happy. I wish I had the power to change things. I would become a beast and kill my father, then elope with my mom to a place where she could find comfort and safety.

She felt bad at that moment; she had no idea what to do-she was just a poor woman dancing to her husband's tune.

As I lay in bed that night, my thoughts spiraled out of control. I imagined a life where my mother could smile without fear, where we could be free from the grip of my father's cruelty. It was a dream that felt so far away, yet I clung to it with all my might.

My mother worked tirelessly, trying to make ends meet, and I wanted to help her. I wanted to take her away from all the pain and suffering. If only I could find a way to earn enough money to support us both. I daydreamed about painting my way into a better life, using my art to inspire others and to show the world that beauty could emerge from pain.

But every time I tried to focus on my dreams, my father's harsh words would creep back into my mind. He was always there, lurking like a dark shadow, ready to remind me of my worthlessness. I wanted to scream, to tell him that he was wrong, that I was not a mistake.

Every night, as I lay in bed, I would close my eyes and picture a future where my mother and I were free-free to laugh, free to love, and free to live without fear. I imagined myself attending Kisco High School, surrounded by friends who supported and uplifted me. I could see myself painting vibrant canvases, my heart full of hope and joy.

But waking up to the reality of my situation was always a harsh reminder of my limitations. My father's control over our lives loomed large, and I felt powerless against it. The scars on my mother's body were reminders of the battles she fought silently every day. I wished I could be her protector, but instead, I felt like a helpless child.

As I drifted off to sleep, I clung to the hope that one day, things would change. I held on to the belief that my dreams were not as impossible as they seemed. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to break free from the chains of my father's tyranny and help my mother reclaim her life.

In the depths of my despair, I still believed in love, in beauty, and in the power of hope. And for that, I knew I had to keep fighting.