Ch 1
Courage(one-shot)
Something happened to me when I was a mere seven year old, something unforgettable, something that would change my perspective of the word 'courage' forever.
When we were young, my brother and I were extremely close, sharing every part of our lives with each other. Perhaps it seems strange for brothers and sisters to be soo close at such a young age. However, that was the way it was with us. We were inseparable, the closest of friends, the best of siblings.
My brother and I did everything together and one thing we especially loved to do was to annoy our parents. As little kids, we derived joy from our parents' annoyance and found it great fun to pull their hair, jump on their toes and pester them while they were getting their daily dose of world news.
'Genie! Danson!' my mother would exclaimed, twisting her body to shrug us off before moving away so that we would disturb our father instead.
'Don't you dare disturb me, you two. Otherwise, expect to get caned,' our father would warn, his eyes never wandering from the newspaper before him. Our father always said that but we knew he did not mean it. Grinning, we would still lounge at him and annoy him to no end. However, busy as our parents were, they would often be angered by our consistent pestering and threats of being caned would often come our way. However, those threats were never carried out and my brother and I continued with our mischievous antics each day.
One day, upon reaching home, I pratically ran in, expecting to be greeted with smiling faces. However, such was not the case. My parents had been seating on the couch before and were now standing in front of me. Their expressions were stern, unsmiling, their lips set in grim lines. They stood over me, domineering and tall to my small form. Past them, I spotted my brother looking at me with concern on his face. What was happening? Why were my parents acting like this? Unconsciously, I bit my lower lip as fear crept into my heart. No one spoke. Silence reigned as we stood there, gazing at each other. Then, my father steered me silently, but surely to the nearby sofa, seating me down.
'Genie...' my mother began, breaking the silence. My gaze flickered to her. She looked disappointed, even pained.
'Yes, mama?' I asked, my voice softer than a whisper. My mother took in a deep breath before asking,' Did you fight with someone in school today?' Hearing that, my mind raced back to the events that had happened in school that day. Images flashed in my mind's eye at the speed of lightning. I saw my enemy, Cynthia, slapping me in the cheek. I saw myself slapping her back, a vicious scowl on my face, a prominent red mark on my face. I saw my teacher walk in just as my hand came in contact with Cynthia's cheek. My teacher's angry face loomed up in my mind's eye as she scolded me; she had not even bothered to find out the truth about the situation. My teacher must have notified my parents, I thought, silently grumbling to myself.
'But she slapped me first!' I protested. 'It wasn't my fault!'
'So you really did fight with someone!' my father exclaimed, his stern expression turning to one of disbelief. 'How could you?' he asked, a hint of rage entering his voice. 'How could you fight with another person, worse, even slap her?' My father was now hollering, shouting and gesturing wildly. My father was shouting at the top of his lungs and his face was red from the effort it took to shout at me. His eyes were piercing and my father's usually kindly face had changed into one that was alien to me. It was not that I had not seen my father angry before; I just had not seen him this angry before. My father was a person with a hot temper and I took after him in that way. I knew that as my father, he had every right to say the words that he did, had every right to scold me for my actions. However, I was not ready to back down just like that. As people say, 'calm spreads calm, stir spreads stir.' Angered by his insensitive words, I reacted in a way that could only be human nature. My hot temper got the better of me and I defended myself, shouting just as my father had.
'I told you, it wasn't my fault! Cynthia slapped me first! I only gave her what she deserved!' I yelled,my voice rising in defiance.
'Even so, you should not have slapped her back! Otherwise, you are as bad as she. Have we not told you as much so many times before? Have you not been listening to us?' my father asked, referring to my mother and himself. 'Everyday, your mother and I talk to you about moral values and yet you never ever listen. Now you even do this sort of thing!' In that way, my father continued ranting on and on, not giving me a chance to rebut. I stood there, silently, awaiting the end of the lecture. I was silent, but defiance was coursing through my very veins. Protest after protest to my father's words ran through my mind, never stopping. They flowed like a river, the rush of my thoughts so loud, they drowned out my father's words. Finally, when my father had run out of words to say, I almost grinned to myself. 'It's my turn now,' I thought, ready to shout out a speech just as long as the one my father had just completed. However, I found myself speechless, all the protests that had gone through my mine while he had been speaking gone. I felt frustrated and before I knew it, I had spoken those five words that changed everything.
'You are soo stupid, dad!' I screamed, my seven year old self losing all control. That did it. My father's patience had reached its limit and furious, he dragged my small form into my parents' room, that dreaded room where the cane was stored. Suddenly, I realized that my father was not joking this time; he would really cane me. Fear blossomed in my heart, replacing all the anger that had been there a moment before. Tears sprang into my eyes and I started screaming as I was dragged into the room. I looked pleadingly at my mother only to see her look away. Then, I looked for my brother, expecting to see him cowering in a corner. Instead, to my utmost surprise, my brother was standing in front of my father, pleading for me. Tears were running down his cheeks and he was pulling at my father's shirt roughly. He was pleading for me but my father shugged him off, ordering him to stay in his room.
Dragging me into the room, my father retrieved the cane from where it was stored and lifting that horrible little stick high above his head, he prepared to hit me. I squeezed my eyes shut, not bearing to watch the cane descend upon me. I expected to feel the pain of the cane landing on me anytime, but instead, I heard the pained cries of my brother. I opened my eyes to the shocking scene of my crying brother standing before me, my flabbergasted father standing behind. Looking down, I saw an ugly red mark across the back of my brother's thigh. It was then that I understood what had happened. My brother had taken the of the cane for me. Shocked and at a lost of what to do, my father left the room but I did not even notice. I was still looking at that ugly red mark on my brother's thigh. It was huge and long, running across the entire width of his thigh. Suddenly, I felt my eyes b with tears as I sank to the ground, my fingers running across that swollen skin of his. Why? Why had my brother taken the pain for me? Why? No doubt my father had used alot of force when he had lashed out, thinking that I would be the victim to the pain. The pain must have been excruciating so why had my brother taken it for me? He was only four years old! How could he be subjected to such pain? My tears overflowed and I hugged my brother tight, drawing him towards me, crying fiercely into his cotten shirt.
'Danson...Danson,' I muttered into his shirt, 'Why did you do that?' For a while, he did not speak. Then he sniffed, putting his chubby arms around me before whispering something into my ear.
'Because I love you, sister.'
That was the first time anyone did something like that for me. Even at that young age of four, my brother displayed courage by taking the pain of the cane for me. That event changed my perspective of courage completely. Initially, I had thought of courage as a word that belonged only to the great heroes of the world. However, now I know that even one as young as four can display courage.
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